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POEMS 


BY 


OSCAR    WILDE. 


BOSTON : 
ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 

i88i. 


University  Press: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


HELAS ! 

To  drift  with  every  passion  till.  i7iy  soul 
Is  a  stringed  lute  on  which  all  wifids  can  play, 
Is  it  for  this  that  I  have  given  away 
Mifie  ancie?it  wisdom,  a?id  austere  control?  — 
Methinks  my  life  is  a  tivice-written  scroll 
Scrawled  over  on  sojne  boyish  holiday 
With  idle  so?igs  for  pipe  and  virelay 
Which  do  but  mar  the  secret  of  the  whole. 
Surely  there  was  a  ti7ne  I  might  have  trod 
The  sunlit  heights,  and  fro7n  life's  dissonance 
Struck  one  clear  chord  to  reach  the  ears  of  God . 
Is  that  time  dead  I   lo !  with  a  little  rod 
I  did  but  touch  the  hofiey  of  roma?ice  — 
And  must  I  lose  a  souVs  iiiheritance  ? 


971i>^ 


THE    POEMS. 

■      ♦ 

Eleutheria  :  —  ^^^e 

Sonnet  to  Liberty 3 

Ave  Imperatrix 4 

To  Milton II 

Louis  Napoleon 12 

Sonnet  on  the  Massacre  of  the  Christians  in  Bul- 
garia   13 

Quantum  Mutata       14 

Libertatis  Sacra  Fames 15 

Theoretikos 16 

The  Garden  of  Eros 17 

Rosa  Mystica  :  — 

Requiescat 37 

Sonnet  on  approaching  Italy 39 

San  Miniato 40 

Ave  Maria  plena  Gratia 41 

Italia       -42 

Sonnet  written  in  Holy  Week  at  Genoa      ....  43 

Rome  Unvisited 44 

Urbs  Sacra  interna 48 


VI  THE   POEMS. 

Page 

Sonnet  on  hearing  the  Dies  Irae  sung  in  the  Sistine 

Chapel 49 

Easter  Day 50 

E  Tenebris - 51 

Vita  Nuova 52 

Madonna  Mia        53 

The  New  Helen 54 

The  Burden  of  Itys 62 

Impression  du  Matin S^ 

Magdalen  Walks 86 

Athanasia 88 

Serenade 92 

Endymion 95 

La  Bella  Donna  della  mia  Mente       98 

Chanson       100 

Charmides loi 

Impressions.     I.  Les  Silhouettes 143 

II.  La  Fuite  de  la  Lune 144 

The  Grave  of  Keats 145 

Theocritus  :  a  Villanelle 146 

In  the  Gold  Room  :  a  Harmony        .......  148 

Ballade  de  Marguerite 150 

The  Dole  of  the  King's  Daughter 153 

Amor  Intellectualis 155 

Santa  Decca 156 


THE  POEMS.  vli 

Page 

A  Vision 157 

Impression  du  Voyage 158 

The  Grave  of  Shelley 159 

By  the  Arno 160 

Impressions  du  Theatre  :  — 

Fabien  del  Franchi 165 

Phedre 166 

Portia 167 

Henrietta  Maria 168 

Camma 169 

Panthea 171 

Impression  :  Le  Reveillon 185 

At  Verona 186 

Apologia        187 

Quia  Multum  amavi 190 

Silentium  Amoris        192 

Her  Voice 193 

My  Voice 196 

Taedium  Vitae 197 

Humanitad        199 

rATKXniKPOS  •  EPi2S 227 


ELEUTHERIA. 


.  5  J ,  J 


ELEUTHERIA. 


SONNET  TO   LIBERTY. 

Not  that  I  love  thy  children,  whose  dull  eyes 
See  nothing  save  their  own  unlovely  woe, 
Whose  minds  know  nothing,  nothing  care  to  know, 
But  that  the  roar  of  thy  Democracies, 
Thy  reigns  of  Terror,  thy  great  Anarchies, 
Mirror  my  wildest  passions  like  the  sea,  — 

And  give  my  rage  a  brother !     Liberty  ! 

For  this  sake  only  do  thy  dissonant  cries 
Delight  my  discreet  soul,  else  might  all  kings 
By  bloody  knout  or  treacherous  cannonades 
Rob  nations  of  their  rights  inviolate 
And  I  remain  unmoved  —  and  yet,  and  yet, 
These  Christs  that  die  upon  the  barricades, 
God  knows  it  I  am  with  them,  in  some  things. 


ELEUTHERIA. 


AVE   IMPERATRIX. 

Set  in  this  stormy  Northern  sea, 

Queen  of  these  restless  fields  of  tide, 

England  !  what  shall  men  say  of  thee, 
Before  whose  feet  the  worlds  divide  ? 

The  earth,  a  brittle  globe  of  glass. 
Lies  in  the  hollow  of  thy  hand, 

And  through  its  heart  of  crystal  pass, 
Like  shadows  through  a  twilight  land, 

The  spears  of  crimson- suited  war, 
The  long  white-crested  waves  of  fight, 

And  all  the  deadly  fires  which  are 
The  torches  of  the  lords  of  Night. 

The  yellow  leopards,  strained  and  lean. 
The  treacherous  Russian  knows  so  well. 

With  gaping  blackened  jaws  are  seen 

Leap  through  the  hail  of  screaming  shell. 


ELEUTHERIA. 

The  strong  sea-lion  of  England's  wars 
Hath  left  his  sapphire  cave  of  sea, 

To  battle  with  the  storm  that  mars 
The  star  of  England's  chivalry. 

The  brazen-throated  clarion  blows 

Across  the  Pathan's  reedy  fen, 
And  the  high  steeps  of  Indian  snows 

Shake  to  the  tread  of  armed  men. 

And  many  an  Afghan  chief,  who  lies 
Beneath  his  cool  pomegranate-trees, 

Clutches  his  sword  in  fierce  surmise 
When  on  the  mountain-side  he  sees 

The  fleet-foot  Marri  scout,  who  comes 

To  tell  how  he  hath  heard  afar 
The  measured  roll  of  English  drums 

Beat  at  the  gates  of  Kandahar. 

For  southern  wind  and  east  wind  meet 

Where,  girt  and  crowned  by  sword  and  fire, 

England  with  bare  and  bloody  feet 

Climbs  the  steep  road  of  wide  empire. 


ELEUTHERTA. 

O  lonely  Himalayan  height, 

Grey  pillar  of  the  Indian  sky, 
Where  saw'st  thou  last  in-  clanging  fight 

Our  winged  dogs  of  Victory  ? 

The  almond  groves  of  Samarcand, 
Bokhara,  where  red  lilies  blow, 

And  Oxus,  by  whose  yellow  sand 
The  grave  white-turbaned  merchants  go  : 

And  on  from  thence  to  Ispahan, 

The  gilded  garden  of  the  sun, 
Whence  the  long  dusty  caravan 

Brings  cedar  and  vermilion  ; 

And  that  dread  city  of  Cabool 

Set  at  the  mountain's  scarped  feet. 

Whose  marble  tanks  are  ever  full 
With  water  for  the  noonday  heat : 

Where  through  the  narrow  straight  Bazaar 

A  little  maid  Circassian 
Is  led,  a  present  from  the  Czar 

Unto  some  old  and  bearded  khan,  — 


ELEUTHERIA. 

Here  have  our  wild  war-eagles  flown, 
And  flapped  wide  wings  in  fiery  fight ; 

But  the  sad  dove,  that  sits  alone 
In  England  —  she  hath  no  delight. 

In  vain  the  laughing  girl  will  lean 
To  greet  her  love  with  love-Ht  eyes  : 

Down  in  some  treacherous  black  ravine, 
Clutching  his  flag,  the  dead  boy  lies. 

And  many  a  moon  and  sun  will  see 
The  lingering  wistful  children  wait 

To  climb  upon  their  father's  knee ; 
And  in  each  house  made  desolate 

Pale  women  who  have  lost  their  lord 
Will  kiss  the  relics  of  the  slain  — 

Some  tarnished  epaulette  —  some  sword  — 
Poor  toys  to  soothe  such  anguished  pain. 

For  not  in  quiet  English  fields 

Are  these,  our  brothers,  lain  to  rest, 

Where  we  might  deck  their  broken  shields 
With  all  the  flowers  the  dead  love  best. 


8  ELEUTHERIA. 

For  some  are  by  the  Delhi  walls, 

And  many  in  the  Afghan  land, 
And  many  where  the  Ganges  falls 

Through  seven  mouths  of  shifting  sand. 

And  some  in  Russian  waters  lie, 
And  others  in  the  seas  which  are 

The  portals  to  the  East,  or  by 

The  wind-swept  heights  of  Trafalgar. 

O  wandering  graves  !     O  restless  sleep  ! 

O  silence  of  the  sunless  day  ! 
O  still  ravine  !     O  stormy  deep  ! 

Give  up  your  prey  !     Give  up  your  prey  ! 

And  thou  whose  wounds  are  never  healed, 
Whose  weary  race  is  never  won, 

O  Cromwell's  England  !  must  thou  yield 
For  every  inch  of  ground  a  son  ? 

Go  !  crown  with  thorns  thy  gold-crowned  head. 
Change  thy  glad  song  to  song  of  pain ; 

Wind  and  wild  wave  have  got  thy  dead. 
And  will  not  yield  them  back  again. 


ELEUTHERIA. 

Wave  and  wild  wind  and  foreign  shore 
Possess  the  flower  of  English  land  — 

Lips  that  thy  lips  shall  kiss  no  more, 
Hands  that  shall  never  clasp  thy  hand. 

What  profit  now  that  we  have  bound 

The  whole  round  world  with  nets  of  gold, 

If  hidden  in  our  heart  is  found 
The  care  that  groweth  never  old  ? 

What  profit  that  our  galleys  ride, 
Pine-forest-like,  on  every  main  ? 

Ruin  and  wreck  are  at  our  side. 
Grim  warders  of  the  House  of  pain. 

Where  are  the  brave,  the  strong,  the  fleet  ? 

Where  is  our  English  chivalry? 
Wild  grasses  are  their  burial-sheet, 
V   And  sobbing  waves  their  threnody. 

O  loved  ones  lying  far  away. 

What  word  of  love  can  dead  lips  send  ! 
O  wasted  dust  !    O  senseless  clay  ! 

Is  this  the  end  !  is  this  the  end  ! 


10  ELEUTHERIA. 

Peace,  peace  !  we  wrong  the  noble  dead 
To  vex  their  solemn  slumber  so  ; 

Though  childless,  and  with  thorn-crowned  head, 
Up  the  steep  road  must  England  go. 

Yet  when  this  fiery  web  is  spun, 

Her  watchmen  shall  descry  ft-om  far 

The  young  Republic  like  a  sun 

Rise  from  these  crimson  seas  of  war. 


'/^  itd"? 


•^i8?V*. 


lC^ 


ELEUTHERIA.  II 


TO  MILTON. 

Milton  !  I  think  thy  spirit  hath  passed  away 

From  these  white  diffs,  and  high-embatded  towers  ; 
This  gorgeous  fiery-coloured  world  of  ours 

Seems  fallen  into  ashes  dull  and  grey, 

And  the  age  changed  unto  a  mimic  play 

Wherein  we  waste  our  else  too-crowded  hours  : 
For  all  our  pomp  and  pageantry  and  powers 

We  are  but  fit  to  delve  the  common  clay, 

Seeing  this  little  isle  on  which  we  stand, 
This  England,  this  sea-lion  of  the  sea. 
By  ignorant  demagogues  is  held  in  fee, 

Who  love  her  not :    Dear  God  !  is  this  the  land 
Which  bare  a  triple  empire  in  her  hand 
When  Cromwell  spake  the  word  Democracy  ! 


12  ELEUTHERIA. 


LOUIS  NAPOLEON. 

Eagle  of  Austerlitz  !  where  were  thy  wings 
When  far  away  upon  a  barbarous  strand, 
In  fight  unequal,  by  an  obscure  hand, 

Fell  the  last  scion  of  thy  brood  of  Kings  ! 

Poor  boy  !  thou  wilt  not  flaunt  thy  cloak  of  red, 
Nor  ride  in  state  through  Paris  in  the  van 
Of  thy  returning  legions,  but  instead 

Thy  mother  France,  free  and  republican, 

Shall  on  thy  dead  and  crownless  forehead  place 
The  better  laurels  of  a  soldier's  crown. 
That  not  dishonoured  should  thy  soul  go  down 

To  tell  the  mighty  Sire  of  thy  race 

That  France  hath  kissed  the  mouth  of  Liberty, 
And  found  it  sweeter  than  his  honied  bees. 
And  that  the  giant  wave  Democracy 

Breaks  on  the  shores  where  Kings  lay  crouched  at.  ease. 


ELEUTIIERIA.  1 3 


SONNET. 

ON   THE   MASSACRE   OF   THE   CHRISTIANS   IN 

BULGARIA. 

Christ,  dost  thou  live  indeed  ?  or  are  thy  bones 
Still  straightened  in  their  rock-hewn  sepulchre? 
And  was  thy  Rising  only  dreamed  by  Her 
Whose  love  of  thee  for  all  her  sin  atones  ? 
For  here  the  air  is  horrid  with  men's  groans, 
The  priests  who  call  upon  thy  name  are  slain, 
Dost  thou  not  hear  the  bitter  wail  of  pain 
From  those  whose  children  lie  upon  the  stones  ? 
Come  down,  O  Son  of  God  !  incestuous  gloom 
Curtains  the  land,  and  through  the  starless  night . 
Over  thy  Cross  the  Crescent  moon  I  see  ! 
If  thou  in  very  truth  didst  burst  the  tomb 
Come  down,  O  Son  of  Man  !  and  show  thy  might, 
Lest  Mahomet  be  crowned  instead  of  Thee  ! 


14  -  ELEUTHERIA. 


QUANTUM   MUTATA. 

There  was  a  time  in  Europe  long  ago 
When  no  man  died  for  freedom  anywhere, 
But  England's  lion  leaping  from  its  lair 
Laid  hands  on  the  oppressor  !  it  was  so 
While  England  could  a  great  Republic  show. 
Witness  the  men  of  Piedmont,  chiefest  care 
Of  Cromwell,  when  with  impotent  despair 
The  Pontiff  in  his  painted  portico 
Trembled  before  our  stern  ambassadors. 

How  comes  it  then  that  from  such  high  estate 
We  have  thus  fallen,  save  that  Luxury 
With  barren  merchandise  piles  up  the  gate 
Where  nobler  thoughts  and  deeds  should  enter  by 
Else  might  we  still  be  Milton's  heritors. 


ELEUTHERIA.  1 5 


LIBERTATIS   SACRA   FAMES. 

Albeit  nurtured  in  democracy, 

And  liking  best  that  state  republican 
Where  every  man  is  Kinglike  and  no  man 

Is  crowned  above  his  fellows,  yet  I  see, 

Spite  of  this  modern  fret  for  Liberty, 
Better  the  rule  of  One,  whom  all  obey, 
Than  to  let  clamorous  demagogues  betray 

Our  freedom  with  the  kiss  of  anarchy. 

Wherefore  I  love  them  not  whose  hands  profane 
Plant  the  red  flag  upon  the  piled-up  street 
For  no  right  cause,  beneath  whose  ignorant  reign 

Arts,  Culture,  Reverence,  Honour,  all  things  fade, 
Save  Treason  and  the  dagger  of  her  trade. 
And  Murder  with  his  silent  bloody  feet. 


1 6  ELEUTHERIA. 


Av 


THEORETIKOS. 

This  mighty  empire  hath  but  feet  of  clay : 
Of  all  its  ancient  chivalry  and  might 
Our  little  island  is  forsaken  quite  : 

Some  enemy  hath  stolen  its  crown  of  bay, 

And  from  its  hills  that  voice  hath  passed  away 
Which  spake  of  Freedom  :  O  come  out  of  it, 
Come  out  of  it,  my  Soul,  thou  art  not  fit 

For  this  vile  traffic-house,  where  day  by  day 
Wisdom  and  reverence  are  sold  at  mart. 
And  the  rude  people  rage  with  ignorant  cries 

Against  an  heritage  of  centuries. 

It  mars  my  calm  :  wherefore  in  dreams  of  Art 
And  loftiest  culture  I  would  stand  apart, 

Neither  for  God,  nor  for  his  enemies. 


THE    GARDEN    OF   EROS, 


It  is  full  summer  now,  the  heart  of  June, 

Not  yet  the  sun-burnt  reapers  are  a-stir 
Upon  the  upland  meadow  where  too  soon 

Rich  autumn  time,  the  season's  usurer, 
Will  lend  his  hoarded  gold  to  all  the  trees, 
And  see  his  treasure  scattered  by  the  wild  and  spendthrift 
breeze. 

Too  soon  indeed  !  yet  here  the  daffodil. 

That  love-child  of  the  Spring,  has  lingered  on 

To  vex  the  rose  with  jealousy,  and  still 
The  harebell  spreads  her  azure  pavilion, 

And  like  a  strayed  and  wandering  reveller 

Abandoned  of  its  brothers,  whom  long  since  June's  mes- 
senger 


20  THE   GARDEN   OF   EROS. 

The  missel-thrush  has  frighted  from  the  glade, 

One  pale  narcissus  loiters  fearfully 
Close  to  a  shadowy  nook,  where  half  afraid 

Of  their  own  loveliness  some  violets  He 
That  will  not  look  the  gold  sun  in  the  face 
For  fear  of  too  much  splendour,  —  ah  !  methinks  it  is  a 
place 

Which  should  be  trodden  by  Persephone 

When  wearied  of  the  flowerless  fields  of  Dis  ! 

Or  danced  on  by  the  lads  of  Arcady  ! 
The  hidden  secret  of  eternal  bliss 

Known  to  the  Grecian  here  a  man  might  find, 

Ah  !  you  and  I  may  find  it  now  if  Love  and  Sleep  be 
kind. 

There  are  the  flowers  which  mourning  Herakles 
Strewed  on  the  tomb  of  Hylas,  columbine, 

Its  white  doves  all  a-flutter  where  the  breeze 
Kissed  them  too  harshly,  the  small  celandine, 

That  yellow-kirtled  chorister  of  eve, 

And  lilac  lady's-smock,  —  but  let  them  bloom  alone,  and 
leave 


THE   GARDEN   OF   EROS.  21 

Yon  spired  holly-hock  red-crocketed 

To  sway  its  silent  chimes,  else  must  the  bee, 

Its  little  bellringer,  go  seek  instead 
Some  other  pleasaunce  ;  the  anemone 

That  weeps  at  daybreak,  like  a  silly  girl 

Before  her  love,  and  hardly  lets  the  butterflies  unfurl 


Their  painted  wings  beside  it,  —  bid  it  pine 

In  pale  virginity ;  the  winter  snow 
Will  suit  it  better  than  those  lips  of  thine 

Whose  fires  would  but  scorch  it,  rather  go 
And  pluck  that  amorous  flower  w^hich  blooms  alone, 
Fed  by  the  pander  wind  with  dust  of  kisses  not  its  own. 


The  trumpet- mouths  of  red  convolvulus 
So  dear  to  maidens,  creamy  meadow-sweet 

Whiter  than  Juno's  throat  and  odorous 
As  all  Arabia,  hyacinths  the  feet 

Of  Huntress  Dian  would  be  loth  to  mar 

For  any  dappled  fawn,  —  pluck   these,  and   those  fond 
flowers  which  are 


22  THE   GARDEN    OF   EROS. 

Fairer  than  what  Queen  Venus  trod  upon 

Beneath  the  pines  of  Ida,  eucharis, 
That  morning  star  which  does  not  dread  the  sun, 

And  budding  marjoram  which  but  to  kiss 
Would  sweeten  Cythersea's  Ups  and  make 
Adonis  jealous,  —  these  for  thy  head,  —  and  for  thy  girdle 
take 

Yon  curving  spray  of  purple  clematis 

Whose  gorgeous  dye  outflames  the  Tyrian  King, 

And  fox-gloves  with  their  nodding  chahces. 
But  that  one  narciss  which  the  startled  Spring 

Let  from  her  kirtle  fall  when  first  she  heard 

In  her  own  woods  the  wild  tempestuous  song  of  summer's 
bird, 

Ah  !  leave  it  for  a  subtle  memory 

Of  those  sweet  tremulous  days  of  rain  and  sun, 
When  April  laughed  between  her  tears  to  see 

The  early  primrose  with  shy  footsteps  run 
From  the  gnarled  oak-tree  roots  till  all  the  wold, 
Spite  of  its  brown  and  trampled  leaves,  grew  bright  with 
shimmering  gold. 


THE   GARDEN   OF   EROS.  23 

Nay,  pluck  it  too,  it  is  not  half  so  sweet 

As  thou  thyself,  my  soul's  idolatry  ! 
And  when  thou  art  a-wearied  at  thy  feet 

Shall  oxlips  weave  their  brightest  tapestry, 
For  thee  the  woodbine  shall  forget  its  pride 
And  vail  its  tangled  whorls,  and  thou  shalt  walk  on  daisies 
pied. 

And  I  will  cut  a  reed  by  yonder  spring 

And  make  the  wood-gods  jealous,  and  old  Pan 

Wonder  what  young  intruder  dares  to  sing 
In  these  still  haunts,  where  never  foot  of  man 

Should  tread  at  evening,  lest  he  chance  to  spy 

The  marble  limbs  of  Artemis  and  all  her  company. 

And  I  will  tell  thee  why  the  jacinth  wears 
Such  dread  embroidery  of  dolorous  moan, 

And  why  the  hapless  nightingale  forbears 
To  sing  her  song  at  noon,  but  weeps  alone 

When  the  fleet  swallow  sleeps,  and  rich  men  feast, 

And  why  the  laurel  trembles  when  she  sees  the  lightening 
east. 


24  THE   GARDEN   OF   EROS. 

And  I  will  sing  how  sad  Proserpina 

Unto  a  grave  and  gloomy  Lord  was  wed, 
And  lure  the  silver-breasted  Helena 

Back  from  the  lotus  meadows  of  the  dead, 
So  shalt  thou  see  that  awful  loveliness 
For  which    two    mighty   Hosts    met    fearfully  in    war's 
abyss  ! 

And  then  I  '11  pipe  to  thee  that  Grecian  tale 

How  Cynthia  loves  the  lad  Endymion, 
And  hidden  in  a  grey  and  misty  veil 

Hies  to  the  chffs  of  Latmos  once  the  Sun 
Leaps  from  his  ocean  bed  in  fruitless  chase 
Of  those  pale  flying  feet  which  fade  away  in  his  em- 
brace. 

And  if  my  flute  can  breathe  sweet  melody, 

We  may  behold  Her  face  who  long  ago 
Dwelt  among  men  by  the  ^Egean  sea, 

And  whose  sad  house  with  pillaged  portico 
And  friezeless  wall  and  columns  toppled  down 
Looms  o'er  the  ruins   of  that   fair  and  violet-cinctured 
town. 


THE   GARDEN    OF   EROS.  25 

Spirit  of  Beauty  !  tarry  still  a-while, 

They  are  not  dead,  thine  ancient  votaries, 

Some  few  there  are  to  whom  thy  radiant  smile 
Is  better  than  a  thousand  victories, 

Though  all  the  nobly  slain  of  Waterloo 

Rise  up  in  wrath  against  them  !    tarry  still,  there  are  a 
few. 


Who  for  thy  sake  would  give  their  manlihood 
And  consecrate  their  being,  I  at  least 

Have  done  so,  made  thy  lips  my  daily  food. 
And  in  thy  temples  found  a  goodlier  feast 

Than  this  starved  age  can  give  me,  spite  of  all 

Its  new-found  creeds  so  sceptical  and  so  dogmatical. 


Here  not  Cephissos,  not  Ilissos  flows, 

The  woods  of  white  Colonos  are  not  here, 

On  our  bleak  hills  the  olive  never  blows. 
No  simple  priest  conducts  his  lowing  steer 

Up  the  steep  marble  way,  nor  through  the  town 

Do  laughing  maidens  bear  to  thee    the  crocus-flowered 
gown. 


26  THE   GARDEN   OF   EROS. 

Yet  tarry  !  for  the  boy  who  loved  thee  best, 

Whose  very  name  should  be  a  memory 
To  make  thee  linger,  sleeps  in  silent  rest 

Beneath  the  Roman  walls,  and  melody 
Still  mourns  her  sweetest  lyre,  none  can  play 
The  lute  of  Adonais,  with  his  lips  Song  passed  away. 

Nay,  when  Keats  died  the  Muses  still  had  left 

One  silver  voice  to  sing  his  threnody. 
But  ah  !  too  soon  of  it  we  were  bereft 

When  on  that  riven  night  and  stormy  sea 
Panthea  claimed  her  singer  as  her  own,  ^ 

And  slew  the  mouth  that  praised  her ;  since  which  time  we 
walk  alone. 

Save  for  that  fiery  heart,  that  morning  star 

Of  re-arisen  England,  whose  clear  eye 
Saw  from  our  tottering  throne  and  waste  of  war 

The  grand  Greek  limbs  of  young  Democracy 
Rise  mightily  like  Hesperus  and  bring 
The  great  Republic  !  him  at  least  thy  love  hath  taught  to 
sing, 


THE   GARDEN    OF   EROS.  2/ 

And  he  hath  been  with  thee  at  Thessaly, 

And  seen  white  Atalanta  fleet  of  foot 
In  passionless  and  fierce  virginity 

Hunting  the  tuske'd  boar,  his  honied  lute 
Hath  pierced  the  cavern  of  the  hollow  hill, 
And  Venus  laughs  to  know  one  knee  will  bow  before  her 
still. 

And  he  hath  kissed  the  lips  of  Proserpine, 

And  sung  the  Galilaean's  requiem, 
That  wounded  forehead  dashed  with  blood  and  wine 

He  hath  discrowned,  the  Ancient  Gods  in  him 
Have  found  their  last,  most  ardent  worshipper, 
And  the  new  Sign  grows  grey  and  dim  before  its  con- 
queror. 

Spirit  of  Beauty  !  tarry  with  us  still. 

It  is  not  quenched  the  torch  of  poesy, 
The  star  that  shook  above  the  Eastern  hill 

Holds  unassailed  its  argent  armoury 
From  all  the  gathering  gloom  and  fretful  fight  — 
O  tarry  with  us  still !  for  through  the  long  and  common 
night. 


28  THE   GARDEN   OF   EROS. 

Morris,  our  sweet  and  simple  Chaucer's  child, 

Dear  heritor  of  Spenser's  tuneful  reed; 
With  soft  and  sylvan  pipe  has  oft  beguiled 

The  weary  soul  of  man  in  troublous  need, 
And  from  the  far  and  flowerless  fields  of  ice 
Has    brought    fair    flowers    meet    to    make   an   earthly 
paradise. 

We  know  them  all,  Gudrun  the  strong  men's  bride, 

Aslaug  and  Olafson  we  know  them  all, 

How  giant  Grettir  fought  and  Sigurd  died, 

I- 
And  what  enchantment  held  the  king  in  thrall 

When  lonely  Brynhild  wrestled  with  the  powers 

That  war  against  all  passion,  ah  !  how  oft  through  summer 

hours. 

Long  listless  summer  hours  when  the  noon 

Being  enamoured  of  a  damask  rose 
Forgets  to  journey  westward,  till  the  moon 

The  pale  usurper  of  its  tribute  grows 
From  a  thin  sickle  to  a  silver  shield 

And  chides  its  loitering  car  —  how  oft,  in  some  cool  grassy 
field 


THE   GARDEN   OF   EROS.  29 

Far  from  the  cricket-ground  and  noisy  eight, 
At  Bagley,  where  the  nisthng  bluebells  come 

Almost  before  the  blackbird  fmds  a  mate 
And  overstay  the  swallow,  and  the  hum 

Of  many  murmuring  bees  flits  through  the  leaves, 

Have    I    lain    poring    on    the   dreamy   tales   his   fancy 
weaves, 

And  through  their  unreal  woes  and  mimic  pain 

Wept  for  myself,  and  so  was  purified. 
And  in  their  simple  mirth  grew  glad  again ; 

For  as  I  sailed  upon  that  pictured  tide 
The  strength  and  splendour  of  the  storm  was  mine 
Without  the  storm's  red  ruin,  for  the  singer  is  divine, 

The  little  laugh  of  water  falling  down 

Is  not  so  musical,  the  clammy  gold 
Close  hoarded  in  the  tiny  waxen  to^vn 

Has  less  of  sweetness  in  it,  and  the  old 
Half-withered  reeds  that  waved  in  Arcady 
Touched  by  his  lips  break  forth    again  to  fresher  har- 
mony. 


30  THE   GARDEN   OF   EROS. 

Spirit  of  Beauty  tarry  yet  a-while  ! 

Although  the  cheating  merchants  of  the  mart 
With  iron  roads  profane  our  lovely  isle, 

And  break  on  whirling  wheels  the  limbs  of  Art, 
Ay  !  though  the  crowded  factories  beget 
The  blind-worm  Ignorance  that  slays  the  soul,  O  tarry 
yet ! 


For  One  at  least  there  is,  —  He  bears  his  name 

From  Dante  and  the  seraph  Gabriel,  — 
Whose  double  laurels  burn  with  deathless  flame 

To  light  thine  altar ;  He  too  loves  thee  well. 
Who  saw  old  Merlin  lured  in  Vivien's  snare, 
And  the  white  feet  of  angels  coming  down  the  golden 
stair. 

Loves  thee  so  well,  that  all  the  World  for  him 

A  gorgeous-coloured  vestiture  must  wear, 
And  Sorrow  take  a  purple  diadem. 

Or  else  be  no  more  Sorrow,  and  Despair 
Gild  its  own  thorns,  and  Pain,  like  Adon,  be 
Even  in  anguish  beautiful ;  —  such  is  the  empery 


THE   GARDEN   OF   EROS.  31 

Which  Painters  hold,  and  such  the  heritage 

This  gentle  solemn  Spirit  doth  possess, 
Being  a  better  mirror  of  his  age 

In  all  his  pity,  love,  and  weariness, 
Than  those  who  can  but  copy  common  things, 
And   leave  the  Soul  unpainted  with  its  mighty  question- 
ings. 

But  they  are  few,  and  all  romance  has  flown, 

And  men  can  prophesy  about  the  sun, 
And  lecture  on  his  arrows  —  how,  alone. 

Through  a  waste  void  the  soulless  atoms  run, 
How  from  each  tree  its  weeping  nymph  has  fled, 
And  that  no  more  'mid  English  reeds  a  Naiad  shows  her 
head. 

Methinks  these  new  Actaeons  boast  too  soon 
That  they  have  spied  on  beauty ;  what  if  we 

Have  analyzed  the  rainbow,  robbed  the  moon 
Of  her  most  ancient,  chastest  mystery. 

Shall  I,  the  last  Endymion,  lose  all  hope 

Because  rude  eyes  peer  at  my  mistress  through   a  tele- 
scope ! 


^2  THE   GARDEN    OF   EROS. 

What  profit  if  this  scientific  age 

Burst  through  our  gates  with  all  its  retinue 

Of  modern  miracles  !     Can  it  assuage 

One  lover's  breaking  heart  ?  what  can  it  do 

To  make  one  life  more  beautiful,  one  day 

More  god-like  in  its  period  ?  but  now  the  Age  of  Clay 

Returns  in  horrid  cycle,  and  the  earth 

Hath  borne  again  a  noisy  progeny 
Of  ignorant  Titans,  whose  ungodly  birth 

Hurls  them  against  the  august  hierarchy 
Which  sat  upon  Olympus,  to  the  Dust 
They  have   appealed,  and   to  that   barren    arbiter   they 
must 

Repair  for  judgment,  let  them,  if  they  can, 
From  Natural  AVarfare  and  insensate  Chance, 

Create  the  new  Ideal  rule  for  man  ! 
Methinks  that  was  not  my  inheritance ; 

For  I  was  nurtured  otherwise,  my  soul 

Passes  from  higher  heights   of   life   to  a  more    supreme 
goal. 


THE   GARDEN    OF   EROS.  S3 

Lo  !  while  we  spake  the  earth  did  turn  away 
Her  visage  from  the  God,  and  Hecate's  boat 

Rose  siker-laden,  till  the  jealous  day 
Blew  all  its  torches  out :  I  did  not  note 

The  waning  hours,  to  young  Endymions 

Time's  palsied  fingers  count  in  vain  his  rosary  of  suns  !  — 


Mark  how  the  yellow  iris  wearily 

Leans  back  its  throat,  as  though  it  would  be  kissed 
By  its  false  chamberer,  the  dragon-fly, 

Who,  like  a  blue  vein  on  a  girl's  w^iite  wTist, 
Sleeps  on  that  snowy  primrose  of  the  night, 
Which  'gins  to  flush  with  crimson  shame,  and  die  beneath 
the  light. 


Come  let  us  go,  against  the  pallid  shield 
Of  the  wan  sky  the  almond  blossoms  gleam, 

The  corn-crake  nested  in  the  unmown  field 
Answers  its  mate,  across  the  misty  stream 

On  fitful  wing  the  startled  curlews  fly, 

And  in  his  sedgy  bed  the  lark,  for  joy  that  Day  is  nigh, 

3 


34  THE    GARDEN    OF   EROS. 

Scatters  the  pearled  dew  from  off  the  grass, 

In  tremulous  ecstasy  to  greet  the  sun, 
Who  soon  in  gilded  panoply  will  pass 

Forth  from  yon  orange-curtained  pavilion 
Hung  in  the  burning  east,  see,  the  red  rim 
O'ertops  the  expectant  hills  !  it  is  the  God  !  for  love  of 
him 

Already  the  shrill  lark  is  out  of  sight, 

Flooding  with  waves  of  song  this  silent  dell,  — 

Ah  !  there  is  something  more  in  that  bird's  flight 
Than  could  be  tested  in  a  crucible  !  — 

But  the  air  freshens,  let  us  go,  —  w^hy  soon 

The  woodmen  will  be  here ;  how  we  have  lived  this  night 
of  June  ! 


ROSA    MYSTICA. 


\ 


ROSA    MYSTICA. 


REQUIESCAT. 

Tread  lightly,  she  is  near 

Under  the  snow, 
Speak  gently,  she  can  hear 

The  daisies  grow. 

All  her  bright  golden  hair 
Tarnished  with  rust, 

She  that  was  young  and  fair 
Fallen  to  dust. 

Lily-like,  white  as  snow, 

She  hardly  knew 
She  was  a  woman,  so 

Sweetly  she  grew. 


38  ROSA   MYSTIC  A. 

Coffin-board,  heavy  stone, 
Lie  on  her  breast, 

I  vex  my  heart  alone 
She  is  at  rest. 

Peace,  Peace,  she  cannot  hear 

Lyre  or  sonnet. 
All  my  life  's  buried  here, 

Heap  earth  upon  it. 

Avignon. 


?.Aa, 


ROSA   MYSTICA.  39 


SONNET  ON  APPROACHING  ITALY. 

I  REACHED  the  Alps  :  the  soul  within  me  burned 

Italia,  my  Italia,  at  thy  name  : 

And  when  from  out  the  mountain's  heart  I  came 
And  saw  the  land  for  which  my  life  had  yearned, 
I  laughed  as  one  who  some  gi*eat  prize  had  earned  : 

And  musing  on  the  story  of  thy  fame 

I  watched  the  day,  till  marked  with  wounds  of  flame 
The  turquoise  sky  to  burnished  gold  was  turned. 
The  pine-trees  waved  as  waves  a  woman's  hair, 

And  in  the  orchards  every  twining  spray 

Was  breaking  into  flakes  of  blossoming  foam  : 
But  when  I  knew  that  far  away  at  Rome 

In  evil  bonds  a  second  Peter  lay, 

I  wept  to  see  the  land  so  very  fair. 

•    Turin. 


40  ROSA   MYSTICA. 


SAN  MINIATO.-^ 

See,  I  have  climbed  the  mountain  side 
Up  to  this  holy  house  of  God, 
Where  once  that  Angel- Painter  trod 
Who  saw  the  heavens  opened  wide, 

And  throned  upon  the  crescent  moon 
The  Virginal  white  Queen  of  Grace, — 
Mary  !  could  I  but  see  thy  face 
Death  could  not  come  at  all  too  soon. 

O  crowned  by  God  with  thorns  and  pain  ! 
Mother  of  Christ !    O  mystic  wife  ! 
My  heart  is  weary  of  this  life 
And  over-sad  to  sing  again. 

O  crowned  by  God  with  love  and  flame  ! 
O  crowned  by  Christ  the  Holy  One  ! 
O  listen  ere  the  searching  sun 
Show  to  the  world  my  sin  and  shame. 


I 


ROSA   MYSTICA.  4 1 


AVE   MARIA    PLENA   GRATIA. 

Was  this  His  coming  !     I  had  hoped  to  see 
A  scene  of  wondrous  glory,  as  was  told 
Of  some  great  God  who  in  a  rain  of  gold 

Broke  open  bars  and  fell  on  Danae  : 

Or  a  dread  vision  as  when  Semele 

Sickening  for  love  and  unappeased  desire 
Prayed  to  see  God's  clear  body,  and  the  fire 

Caught  her  white  limbs  and  slew  her  utterly  : 

With  such  glad  dreams  I  sought  this  holy  place, 
And  now  with  v/ondering  eyes  and  heart  I  stand 
Before  this  supreme  m3^stery  of  Love  : 

A  kneeling  girl  with  passionless  pale  face. 
An  angel  v/ith  a  lily  in  his  hand, 
And  over  both  with  outstretched  wings  the  Dove. 

Florence. 


42  ROSA   MYSTICA. 


ITALIA. 


Italia  !  thou  art  fallen,  though  with  sheen 
Of  battle-spears  thy  clamorous  armies  stride 
From  the  north  Alps  to  the  Sicilian  tide  ! 

Ay  !  fallen,  though  the  nations  hail  thee  Queen 

Because  rich  gold  in  every  town  is  seen, 
And  on  thy  sapphire  lake  in  tossing  pride 
Of  wind-filled  vans  thy  myriad  galleys  ride 

Beneath  one  flag  of  red  and  white  and  green. 

O  Fair  and  Strong  !     O  Strong  and  Fair  in  vain  ! 
Look  southward  where  Rome's  desecrated  town 
Lies  mourning  for  her  God- anointed  King  ! 

Look  heaven-ward  !  shall  God  allow  this  thing? 

Nay  !  but  some  flame-girt  Raphael  shall  come  do\\Ti, 
And  smite  the  Spoiler  with  the  sword  of  pain. 

Venice. 


ROSA  MYSTICA.  43 


SONNET 
.  WRITTEN   IN    HOLY    WEEK   AT   GENOA. 

I  WANDERED  ill  Scoglictto's  grceii  retreat, 
The  oranges  on  each  o'erhanging  spray 
Burned  as  bright  lamps  of  gold  to  shame  the  day ; 

Some  starded  bird  with  fluttering  wings  and  fleet 

Made  snow  of  all  the  blossoms,  at  my  feet 
Like  silver  moons  the  pale  narcissi  lay : 
And  the  curved  waves  that  streaked  the  sapphire  bay 
■  Laughed  i'  the  sun,  and  life  seemed  very  sweet. 

Outside  the  young  boy-priest  passed  singing  clear, 
*'  Jesus  the  Son  of  Mary  has  been  slain, 
O  com€  and  fill  his  sepulchre  with  flowers." 

Ah,  God  !     Ah,  God  !  those  dear  Hellenic  hours 
Had  drowned  all  memory  of  Thy  bitter  pain. 
The  Cross,  the  Crown,  the  Soldiers,  and  the  Spear. 


44  ROSA   MYSTICA. 


ROME   UNVISITED. 


The  corn  has  turned  from  grey  to  red, 
Since  first  my  spirit  wandered  forth 
From  the  drear  cities  of  the  north, 

And  to  Itaha's  mountains  fled. 

And  here  I  set  my  face  towards  home, 
For  all  my  pilgrimage  is  done, 
Although,  methinks,  yon  blood-red  sun 

Marshals  the  way  to  Holy  Rome. 

O  Blessed  Lady,  who  dost  hold 
Upon  the  seven  hills  thy  reign  ! 

0  Mother  without  blot  or  stain, 
Crowned  with  bright  crowns  of  triple  gold  ! 

O  Roma,  Roma,  at  thy  feet 

1  lay  this  barren  gift  of  song  ! 
For,  ah  !  the  way  is  steep  and  long 

That  leads  unto  thy  sacred  street. 


ROSA   MYSTICA.  45 


II. 

And  yet  what  joy  it  were  for  me 
To  turn  my  feet  unto  the  south, 
And  journeying  towards  the  Tiber  mouth 

To  kneel  again  at  Fiesole  ! 

And  wandering  through  the  tangled  pines 
That  break  the  gold  of  Arno's  stream, 
To  see  the  purple  mist  and  gleam 

Of  morning  on  the  Apennines. 

By  many  a  vineyard-hidden  home, 
Orchard,  and  olive-garden  grey. 
Till  from  the  drear  Campagna's  way 

The  seven  hills  bear  up  the  dome  ! 


4^  ROSA   MYSTICA. 


III. 

A  pilgrim  from  the  northern  seas  — 
What  joy  for  me  to  seek  alone 
The  wondrous  Temple,  and  the  throne 

Of  Him  who  holds  the  awful  keys  ! 

When,  bright  with  purple  and  with  gold, 
Come  priest  and  holy  Cardinal, 
And  borne  above  the  heads  of  all 

The  gentle  Shepherd  of  the  Fold. 

O  joy  to  see  before  I  die 

The  only  God-anointed  King, 
And  hear  the  silver  trumpets  ring 

A  triumph  as  He  passes  by  ! 

Or  at  the  altar  of  the  shrine 
Holds  high'  the  mystic  sacrifice, 
And  shows  a  God  to  human  eyes 

Beneath  the  veil  of  bread  and  wine. 


ROSA   MYSTICA.  47 


IV. 

For  lo,  what  changes  time  can  bring  ! 
The  cycles  of  revolving  years 
May  free  my  heart  from  all  its  fears,  — 

And  teach  my  lips  a  song  to  sing. 

Before  yon  field  of  trembling  gold 
Is  garnered  into  dusty  sheaves, 
Or  ere  the  autumn's  scarlet  leaves 

Flutter  as  birds  adown  the  wold, 

I  may  have  nm  the  glorious  race, 

And  caught  the  torch  while  yet  aflame, 
And  called  upon  the  holy  name 

Of  Him  who  now  doth  hide  His  face. 


48  ROSA   MYSTICA. 


URBS  SACIL\  STERNA. 

Rome  !  what  a  scroll  of  History  thine  has  been 
In  the  first  days  thy  sword  republican 
Ruled  the  whole  world  for  many  an  age's  span  : 

Then  of  thy  peoples  thou  wert  crowned  Queen, 

Till  in  thy  streets  the  bearded  Goth  was  seen ; 
And  now  upon  thy  walls  the  breezes  fan 
(Ah,  city  crowned  by  God,  discrowned  by  man  !) 

The  hated  flag  of  red  and  white  and  green. 

When  was  thy  glory  !  when  in  search  for  power 
Thine  eagles  flew  to  greet  the  double  sun, 
And  all  the  nations  trembled  at  thy  rod  ? 

Nay,  but  thy  glory  tarried  for  this  hour. 
When  pilgrims  kneel  before  the  Holy  One, 
The  prisoned  shepherd  of  the  Church  of  God. 


ROSA   MYSTICA.  49 


SONNET. 

ON   HEARING   THE    DIES    IR^   SUNG    IN    THE 
SISTINE   CHAPEL.  * 

Nay,  Lord,  not  thus  !  white  lilies  in  the  spring. 
Sad  olive-groves,  or  silver-breasted  dove. 
Teach  me  more  clearly  of  Thy  life  and  love 

Than  terrors  of  red  flame  and  thundering. 

The  empurpled  vines  dear  memories  of  Thee  bring : 
A  bird  at  evening  flying  to  its  nest, 
Tells  me  of  One  who  had  no  place  of  rest : 

I  think  it  is  of  Thee  the  sparrows  sing. 

Come  rather  on  some  autumn  afternoon, 

When  red  and  brown  are  burnished  on  the  leaves, 
And  the  fields  echo  to  the  gleaner's  song. 

Come  when  the  splendid  fulness  of  the  moon 
Looks  down  upon  the  rows  of  golden  sheaves, 
And  reap  Thy  harvest :  we  have  waited  long. 


50  ROSA   MYSTICA. 


EASTER   DAY. 

The  silver  trumpets  rang  across  the  Dome  : 
The  people  knelt  upon  the  ground  with  awe : 
And  borne  upon  the  necks  of  men  I  saw, 

Like  some  great  God,  the  Holy  Lord  of  Rome. 

Priest-like,  he  wore  a  robe  more  white  than  foam, 
And,  king-like,  swathed  himself  in  royal  red, 
Three  crowns  of  gold  rose  high  upon  his  head  : 

In  splendour  and  in  light  the  Pope  passed  home. 

My  heart  stole  back  across  wide  'wastes  of  years 
To  One  who  wandered  by  a  lonely  sea, 
And  sought  in  vain  for  any  place  of  rest : 

"  Foxes  have  holes,  and  every  bird  its  nest, 
I,  only  I,  must  wander  wearily. 
And  bruise  my  feet,  and  drink  wine  salt  with  tears." 


ROSA  MYSTICA.  51 


E   TENEBRIS. 

Come  down,  O  Christ,  and  help  me  !  reach  thy  hand, 
For  I  am  drowning  in  a  stormier  sea 
Than  Simon  on  thy  lake  of  Galilee  : 

The  wine  of  life  is  spilt  upon  the  sand, 

My  heart  is  as  some  famine-murdered  land, 
Whence  all  good  things  have  perished  utterly, 
And  well  I  know  my  soul  in  Hell  must  lie 

If  I  this  night  before  God's  throne  should  stand. 

"  He  sleeps  perchanc^e,  or  rideth  to  the  chase. 
Like  Baal,  when  his  prophets  howled  that  name 
From  mom  to  noon  on  Carmel's  smitten  height." 

Nay,  peace,  I  shall  behold  before  the  night. 

The  feet  of  brass,  the  robe  more  white  than  flame. 
The  wounded  hands,  the  weary  human  face. 


52  ROSA   MYSTICA. 


VITA   NUOVA. 

I  STOOD  by  the  unvintageable  sea 

Till  the  wet  waves  drenched  face  and  hair  with  spray, 

The  long  red  fires  of  the  dying  day 
Burned  in  the  west ;  the  wind  piped  drearily ; 
And  to  the  land  the  clamorous  gulls  did  flee  : 

"  Alas  !  "  I  cried,  ''  my  life  is  full  of  pain, 

And  who  can  garner  fruit  or  golden  grain, 
From  these  waste  fields  which  travail  ceaselessly  !  " 

My  nets  gaped  wide  with  many  a  break  and  flaw 

Nathless  I  threw  them  as  my  final  cast 

Into  the  sea,  and  waited  for  the  end. 
When  lo  !  a  sudden  glory  !  and  I  saw 

The  argent  si:)lendour  of  white  limbs  ascend, 

And  in  that  joy  forgot  my  tortured  past. 


ROSA   MYSTICA.  53 


MADONNA    MIA. 

A  Lily-girl,  not  made  for  this  world's  pain, 
With  brown,  soft  hair  close  braided  by  her  ears, 
And  longing  eyes  half  veiled  by  slumberous  tears 

Like  bluest  water  seen  through  mists  of  rain  : 

Pale  cheeks  whereon  no  love  hath  left  its  stain. 
Red  underlip  drawn  in  for  fear  of  love, 
And  white  throat,  whiter  than  the  silvered  dove. 

Through  whose  wan  marble  creeps  one  purple  vein. 

Yet,  though  my  lips  shall  praise  her  without  cease, 
Even  to  kiss  her  feet  I  am  not  bold. 
Being  o'ershadowed  by  the  wings  of  awe. 

Like  Dante,  when  he  stood  with  Beatrice 
Beneath  the  flaming  Lion's  breast,  and  saw 
The  seventh  Crystal,  and  the  Stair  of  Gold. 


54  ROSA   MYSTIC  A. 


THE   NEW   HELEN.  ' 

Where  hast  thou  been  since  round  the  walls  of  Troy 
The  sons  of  God  fought  in  that  great  emprise  ? 
Why  dost  thou  walk  our  common  earth  again  ? 

Hast  thou  forgotten  that  impassioned  boy, 
His  purple  galley,  and  his  Tyrian  men, 
And  treacherous  Aphrodite's  mocking  eyes? 

For  surely  it  was  thou,  who,  like  a  star 
Hung  in  the  silver  silence  of  the  night, 
Didst  lure  the  Old  World's  chivalry  and  might 

Into  the  clamorous  crimson  waves  of  war  ! 

Or  didst  thou  rule  the  fire-laden  moon? 
In  amorous  Sidon  was  thy  temple  built 

Over  the  light  and  laughter  of  the  sea? 
Where,  behind  lattice  scarlet-wrought  and  gilt, 
Some  brown-limbed  girl  did  weave  thee  tapestry, 
All  through  the  waste  and  wearied  hours  of  noon ; 


ROSA   MYSTICA.  55 

Till  her  wan  cheek  with  flame  of  passion  burned, 
And  she  rose  up  the  sea-washed  lips  to  kiss 

Of  some  glad  C}^rian  sailor,  safe  returned 
From  Calp6  and  the  cliffs  of  Herakles  ! 

No  !  thou  art  Helen,  and  none  other  one  ! 

It  was  for  thee  that  young  Sarpedon  died, 

And  Memnon's  manhood  was  untimely  spent ; 

It  was  for  thee  gold-crested  Hector  tried 
With  Thetis'  child  that  evil  race  to  run, 

In  the  last  year  of  thy  beleaguerment ; 
Ay  !  even  now  the  glory  of  thy  fame 

Burns  in  those  fields  of  trampled  asphodel, 

Where  the  high  lords  whom  Ilion  knew  so  well 
Clash  ghostly  shields,  and  call  upon  thy  name. 

Where  hast  thou  been?  in  that  enchanted  land 
Whose  slumbering  vales  forlorn  Calypso  knew, 

Where  never  mower  rose  to  greet  the  day 
But  all  unswathed  the  trammelling  grasses  grew, 
And  the  sad  shepherd  saw  the  tall  corn  stand 

Till  summer's  red  had  changed  to  withered  gray  ? 


56  ROSA   MYSTIC  A. 

Didst  thou  lie  there  by  some  Lethasan  stream 
Deep  brooding  on  thine  ancient  memory, 

The  crash  of  broken  spears,  the  fiery  gleam 
From  shivered  helm,  the  Grecian  battle-cry. 

Nay,  thou  wert  hidden  in  that  hollow  hill 
With  one  who  is  forgotten  utterly, 

That  discrowned  Queen  men  call  the  Erycine ; 
Hidden  away  that  never  mightst  thou  see 

The  face  of  Her,  before  whose  mouldering  shrine 
To-day  at  Rome  the  silent  nations  kneel ; 
Who  gat  from  Love  no  joyous  gladdening, 

But  only  Love's  intolerable  pain. 

Only  a  sword  to  pierce  her  heart  in  twain. 
Only  the  bitterness  of  child-bearing. 

The  lotos-leaves  which  heal  the  wounds  of  Death 
Lie  in  thy  hand ;  O,  be  thou  kind  to  me. 
While  yet  I  know  the  summer  of  my  days ; 
For  hardly  can  my  tremulous  lips  draw  breath 
To  fill  the  silver  trumpet  with  thy  praise, 
So  bowed  am  I  before  thy  mystery ; 


ROSA   MYSTICA.  5/ 

So  bowed  and  broken  on  Love's  terrible  wheel, 
That  I  have  lost  all  hope  and  heart  to  sing, 
Yet  care  I  not  what  ruin  time  may  bring 

If  in  thy  temple  thou  wilt  let  me  kneel. 

Alas,  alas,  thou  wilt  not  tarry  here, 

But,  like  that  bird,  the  servant  of  the  sun. 

Who  flies  before  the  northwind  and  the  night, 
So  wilt  thou  fly  our  evil  land  and  drear, 
Back  to  the  tower  of  thine  old  delight, 

And  the  red  lips  of  young  Euphorion ; 
Nor  shall  I  ever  see  thy  face  again, 

But  in  this  poisonous  garden  must  I  stay. 
Crowning  my  brows  with  the  thorn-crown  of  pain, 

Till  all  my  loveless  life  shall  pass  away. 

O  Helen  !  Helen  !  Helen  !  yet  awhile, 
Yet  for  a  little  while,  O,  tarry  here, 

Till  the  dawn  cometh  and  the  shadows  flee  ! 
For  in  the  gladsome  sunlight  of  thy  smile 
Of  heaven  or  hell  I  have  no  thought  or  fear. 
Seeing  I  know  no  other  god  but  thee  : 


58  ROSA  MYSTIC  A. 

No  other  god  save  him,  before  whose  feet 
In  nets  of  gold  the  tired  planets  move. 
The  incarnate  spirit  of  spiritual  love 

Who  in  thy  body  holds  his  joyous  seat. 

Thou  well;  not  bom  as  common  women  are  ! 

But,  girt  with  silver  splendour  of  the  foam, 
Didst  from  the  depths  of  sapphire  seas  arise  ! 
And  at  thy  coming  some  immortal  star, 

Bearded  with  flame,  blazed  in  the  Eastern  skies, 

And  waked  the  shepherds  on  thine  island-home. 
Thou  shalt  not  die  :  no  asps  of  Egypt  creep 

Close  at  thy  heels  to  taint  the  delicate  air ; 

No  sullen-blooming  poppies  stain  thy  hair, 
Those  scarlet  heralds  of  eternal  sleep. 

Lily  of  love,  pure  and  inviolate  ! 
Tower  of  ivory  !  red  rose  of  fire  ! 

Thou  hast  come  down  our  darkness  to  illume : 
For  we,  close- caught  in  the  wide  nets  of  Fate, 
Wearied  with  waiting  for  the  World's  Desire, 
Aimlessly  wandered  in  the  house  of  gloom, 


ROSA   MYSTIC  A.  59 

Aimlessly  sought  some  slumberous  anodyne 
For  wasted  lives,  for  lingering  \vretchedness, 

Till  we  beheld  thy  re-arisen  shrine, 
And  the  white  glory  of  thy  loveliness. 


THE   BURDEN    OF   ITYS. 


This  English  Thames  is  holier  far  than  Rome, 
Those  harebells  like  a  sudden  flush  of  sea 

Breaking  across  the  woodland,  with  the  foam 
Of  meadow-sweet  and  white  anemone 

To  fleck  their  blue  waves,  —  God  is  likelier  there, 

Than  hidden  in  that  crystal-hearted  star  the  pale  monks 
bear  ! 

Those  violet-gleaming  butterflies  that  take 

Yon  creamy  hly  for  their  pavilion 
Are  monsignores,  and  where  the  rushes  shake 

A  lazy  pike  lies  basking  in  the  sun 
His  eyes  half-shut,  —  He  is  some  mitred  old 
Bishop  in  partibus  I  look  at  those  gaudy  scales  all  green 
and  gold. 


64  THE   BURDEN   OF   ITYS. 

The  wind  the  restless  prisoner  of  the  trees 

Does  well  for  Pal^estrina,  one  would  say 
The  mighty  master's  hands  were  on  the  keys 

Of  the  Maria  organ,  which  they  play 
When  early  on  some  sapphire  Easter  morn 
In    a    high    litter    red    as    blood    or    sin    the    Pope    is 
borne 

From  his  dark  House  out  to  the  Balcony 

Above  the  bronze  gates  and  the  crowded  square, 

Whose  very  fountains  seem  for  ecstasy 
To  toss  their  silver  lances  in  the  air. 

And  stretching  out  weak  hands  to  East  and  West 

In  vain  sends  peace  to  peaceless  lands,  to  restless  nations 
rest. 

Is  not  yon  lingering  orange  afterglow 

That  stays  to  vex  the  moon  more  fair  than  all 

Rome's  lordhest  pageants  !  strange,  a  year  ago    - 
I  knelt  before  some  crimson  Cardinal 

Who  bare  the  Host  across  the  Esquiline, 

And  now  —  those  common  poppies  in  the  wheat  seem 
twice  as  fine. 


THE   BURDEN   OF   ITYS.  6$ 

The  blue-green  beanfields  yonder,  tremulous 
With  the  last  shower,  sweeter  perfume  bring 

Through  this  cool  evening  than  the  odorous 

Flame-jewelled  censers  the  young  deacons  swing, 

When  the  grey  priest  unlocks  the  curtained  shrine, 

And  makes  God's  body  from  the  common  fruit  of  corn 
and  vine. 

Poor  Fra  Giovanni  bawling  at  the  mass 

Were  out  of  tune  now,  for  a  small  brown  bird 

Sings  overhead,  and  through  the  long  cool  grass 
I  see  that  throbbing  throat  which  once  I  heard 

On  starlit  hills  of  flower- starred  Arcady, 

Once  where  the  white  and  crescent  sand  of  Salamis  meets 
sea. 

Sweet  is  the  swallow  twittering  on  the  eaves 
At  daybreak,  when  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 

And  stock-doves  murmur,  and  the  milkmaid  leaves 
Her  little  lonely  bed,  and  carols  blithe 

To  see  the  heavy-lowing  cattle  wait 

Stretching  their  huge    and   dripping  mouths  across  the 
farmyard  gate. 


66  THE   BURDEN    OF   ITYS. 

And  sweet  the  hops  upon  the  Kentish  leas, 

And  sweet  the  wind  that  hfts  the  new-mown  hay, 

And  sweet  the  fretful  swarms  of  grumbling  bees 
That  round  and  round  the  linden  blossoms  play ; 

And  sweet  the  heifer  breathing  in  the  stall, 

And  the  green  bursting  figs  that  hang  upon  the  red-brick 
wall. 

And  sweet  to  hear  the  cuckoo  mock  the  spring 

While  the  last  violet  loiters  by  the  well, 
And  sweet  to  hear  the  shepherd  Daphnis  sing 

The  song  of  Linus  through  a  sunny  dell 
Of  warm  Arcadia  where  the  corn  is  gold 
And    the    slight   lithe-limbed   reapers    dance    about   the 
wattled  fold. 

And  sweet  with  young  Lycoris  to  recline 

In  some  Illyrian  valley  far  away. 
Where  canopied  on  herbs  amaracine 

We  too  might  waste  the  summer-tranced  day 
Matching  our  reeds  in  sportive  rivalry. 
While  far  beneath  us  frets  the  troubled  purple    of  the 
sea. 


THE   BURDEN   OF   ITYS.  6/ 

But  sweeter  far  if  silver-sandalled  foot 

Of  some  long-hidden  God  should  ever  tread 

The  Nuneham  meadows,  if  with  reeded  flute 

Pressed  to  his  lips  some  Faun  might  raise  his  head 

By  the  green  water-flags,  ah  !  sweet  indeed 

To  see  the  heavenly  herdsman  call  his  white-fleeced  flock 
to  feed. 

Then  sing  to  me  thou  tuneful  chorister, 

Though  what  thou  sing'st  be  thine  own  requiem  ! 

Tell  me  thy  tale  thou  hapless  chronicler 
Of  thine  own  tragedies  !  do  not  contemn 

These  unfamiliar  haunts,  this  English  field, 

For    many    a   lovely    coronal    our    northern    isle    can 
yield, 

Which  Grecian  meadows  know  not,  many  a  rose, 

Which  all  day  long  in  vales  ^olian 
A  lad  might  seek  in  vain  for,  overgrows 

Our  hedges  like  a  wanton  courtezan 
Unthrifty  of  her  beauty,  hlies  too 

Ilissus    never   mirrored    star   our    streams,    and    cockles 
blue 


6S  THE   BURDEN   OF   ITYS. 

Dot  the  green  wheat  which,  though  they  are  the  signs 
For  swallows  going  south,  would  never  spread 

Their  azure  tents  between  the  Attic  vines  ; 
Even  that  little  weed  of  ragged  red, 

Which  bids  the  robin  pipe,  in  i\rcady 

Would  be  a  trespasser,  and  many  an  unsung  elegy 


Sleeps  in  the  reeds  that  fringe  our  winding  Thames 
Which  to  awake  were  sweeter  ravishment 

Than  ever  Syrinx  wept  for,  diadems 

Of  brown  bee-studded  orchids  which  were  meant 

For  Cythersea's  brows  are  hidden  here 

Unknown  to  Cyther^ea,  and  by  yonder  pasturing  steer 


There  is  a  tiny  yellow  daffodil, 

The  butterfly  can  see  it  from  afar, 
Although  one  summer  evening's  dew  could  fill 

Its  Httle  cup  twice  over  ere  the  star 
Had  called  the  lazy  shepherd  to  his  fold 
And  be    no  prodigal,  each  leaf  is    flecked  with  spotted 
gold 


THE   BURDEN   OF   ITYS.  69 

As  if  Jove's  gorgeous  leman  Dana^ 

Hot  from  his  gilded  arms  had  stooped  to  kiss 

The  trembling  petals,  or  young  Mercury 
Low-flying  to  the  dusky  ford  of  Dis 

Had  with  one  feather  of  his  pinions 

Just  brushed  them  !  —  the  slight  stem  which  bears  the 
burden  of  its  suns 

Is  hardly  thicker  than  the  gossamer, 

Or  poor  Arachne's  silver  tapestr}%  — 
Men  say  it  bloomed  upon  the  sepulchre 

Of  One  I  sometime  worshipped,  but  to  me 
It  seems  to  bring  diviner  memories 
Of  faun-loved    Heliconian    glades    and    blue   nymph- 
haunted  seas, 

Of  an  untrodden  vale  at  Tempe  where 
On  the  clear  river's  marge  Narcissus  lies. 

The  tangle  of  the  forest  in  his  hair. 

The  silence  of  the  woodland  in  his  eyes, 

Wooing  that  drifting  imagery  which  is 

No  sooner  kissed  than  broken,  memories  of  Salmacis 


70  THE   BURDEN   OF  ITYS. 

Who  is  not  boy  or  girl  and  yet  is  both, 

Fed  by  two  fires  and  unsatisfied 
Through  their  excess,  each  passion  being  loth 

For  love's  own  sake  to  leave  the  other's  side 
Yet  kilHng  love  by  staying,  memories 
Of  Oreads  peeping  through  the  leaves  of  silent  moon- 
lit trees, 

Of  lonely  Ariadne  on  the  wharf 

At  Naxos,  when  she  saw  the  treacherous  crew 
Far  out  at  sea,  and  waved  her  crimson  scarf 

And  called  false  Theseus  back  again  nor  knew 
That  Dionysos  on  an  amber  pard 
Was  close  behind   her,  memories  of  what  Maeonia's 
bard 

With  sightless  eyes  beheld,  the  wall  of  Troy, 
Queen  Helen  lying  in  the  carven  room, 

And  at  her  side  an  amorous  red-lipped  boy 

Trimming  with  dahity  hand  his  helmet's  plume. 

And  far  away  the  moil,  the  shout,  the  groan. 

As  Hector  shielded  off  the  spear  and  Ajax  hurled  the 
stone ; 


THE   BURDEN   OF   ITYS.  71 

Of  winged  Perseus  with  his  flawless  sword 

Cleaving  the  snaky  tresses  of  the  witch, 
And  all  those  tales  imperishably  stored 

In  little  Grecian  urns,  freightage  more  rich 
Than  any  gaudy  galleon  of  Spain 
Bare  from  the  Indies  ever !  these  at  least  bring  back 
again. 

For  well  I  know  they  are  not  dead  at  all, 

The  ancient  Gods  of  Grecian  poesy. 
They  are  asleep,  and  when  they  hear  thee  call 

Will  wake  and  think  't  is  very  Thessaly, 
This  Thames  the  Daulian  waters,  this  cool  glade 
The  yellow-irised  mead  where  once  young  Itys  laughed 
and  played. 

If  it  was  thou  dear  jasmine-cradled  bird 
Who  from  the  leafy  stillness  of  thy  throne 

Sang  to  the  wondrous  boy,  until  he  heard 
The  horn  of  Atalanta  faintly  blown 

Across  the  Cumner  hills,  and  wandering 

Through  Bagley  wood  at  evening  found  the  Attic  poets' 
spring,  — 


72  THE   BURDEN   OF   ITYS. 

Ah  !  tiny  sober-suited  advocate 

That  pleadest  for  the  moon  against  the  day  ! 
If  thou  didst  make  the  sheplierd  seek  his  mate 

On  that  sweet  questing,  when  Proserpina 
Forgot  it  was  not  Sicily  and  leant 
Across  the  mossy  Sandford  stile  in  ravished  wonder- 
ment, — 

Light- winged  and  bright- eyed  miracle  of  the  wood  ! 

If  ever  thou  didst  soothe  with  melody 
One  of  that  little  clan,  that  brotherhood 

Which  loved  the  morning- star  of  Tuscany 
More  than  the  perfect  sun  of  Raphael 
And  is  immortal,  sing  to  me  !  for  I  too  love  thee  well, 

Sing  on  !  sing  on  !  let  the  dull  world  grow  young. 
Let  elemental  things  take  form  again,    ' 

And  the  old  shapes  of  Beauty  walk  among 
The  simple  garths  and  open  crofts,  as  when 

The  son  of  Leto  bare  the  willow  rod. 

And  the  soft  sheep  and  shaggy  goats  followed  the  boy- 
ish God. 


THE   BURDEN   OF   ITVS.  73 

Sing  on  !  sing  on  !  and  Bacchus  will  be  here 
Astride  upon  his  gorgeous  Indian  throne, 

And  over  whimpering  tigers  shake  the  spear 
With  yellow  ivy  crowned  and  gummy  cone, 

While  at  his  side  the  wanton  Bassarid 

Will  throw  the  lion  by  the  mane  and  catch  the  mountain 
kid! 

Sing  on  !  and  I  will  wear  the  leopard  skin, 
And  steal  the  mooned  wings  of  Ashtaroth, 

Upon  whose  icy  chariot  we  could  win 
Cithseron  in  an  hour  e'er  the  froth 

Has  overbrimmed  the  wine-vat  or  the  Faun 

Ceased  from  the  treading  !    ay,  before  the    flickering 
lamp  of  dawn 

Has  scared  the  hooting  owlet  to  its  nest, 
And  warned  the  bat  to  close  its  filmy  vans, 

Some  Maenad  girl  with  vine-leaves  on  her  breast 
Will  filch  their  beechnuts  from  the  sleeping  Pans 

So  softly  that  the  little  nested  thrush 

Will  never  wake,  and  then  with  shrilly  laugh  and  leap 
will  rush 


74  THE   BURDEN   C^   ITYS. 

Down  the  green  valley  where  the  fallen  dew 
Lies  thick  beneath  the  elm  and  count  her  store, 

Till  the  brown  Satyrs  in  a  jolly  crew 

Trample  the  loosestrife  down  along  the  shore, 

And  where  their  horned  master  sits  in  state 

Bring  strawberries  and  bloomy  plums  upon  a  wicker 
crate  ! 

Sing  on  !  and  soon  with  passion-wearied  face 
Through  the  cool  leaves  Apollo's  lad  will  come, 

The  Tyrian  prince  his  bristled  boar  will  chase 
Adown  the  chestnut-copses  all  a-bloom, 

And  ivory-hmbed,  grey-eyed,  with  look  of  pride. 

After  yon  velvet-coated  deer  the  virgin  maid  will  ride. 

Sing  on  !  and  I  the  dying  boy  vAW  see 

Stain  with  his  purple  blood  the  waxen  bell 

That  overweighs  the  jacinth,  and  to  me 
The  wretched  Cyprian  her  woe  will  tell, 

And  I  will  kiss  her  mouth  and  streaming  eyes. 

And  lead  her  to  the  myrtle-hidden  grove  where  Adon 
lies  ! 


THE   BURDEN   OF   ITVS.  75 

Cry  out  aloud  on  Itys  !  memory 

That  foster-brother  of  remorse  and  pain 

Drops  poison  in  mine  ear,  —  O  to  be  free, 
To  burn  one's  old  ships  !  and  to  launch  again 

Into  the  white-plumed  battle  of  the  waves 

And  fight  old  Proteus  for  the  spoil  of  coral-flowered 
caves  ! 

O  for  Medea  with  her  poppied  spell ! 

O  for  the  secret  of  the  Colchian  shrine  ! 
O  for  one  leaf  of  that  pale  asphodel 

Which  binds  the  tired  brows  of  Proserpine, 
And  sheds  such  wondrous  dews  at  eve  that  she 
Dreams  of  the  fields  of  Enna,  by  the  far  Sicilian  sea, 

Where  oft  the  golden-girdled  bee  she  chased 

From  lily  to  lily  on  the  level  mead, 
Ere  yet  her  sombre  Lord  had  bid  her  taste 

The  deadly  fruit  of  that  pomegi-anate  seed. 
Ere  the  black  steeds  had  harried  her  away 
Down  to  the  faint  and  flowerless  land,  the  sick  and  sun- 
less day. 


^6  THE   BURDEN   OF  ITYS. 

O  for  one  midnight  and  as  paramour 
The  Venus  of  the  little  Melian  farm  ! 

0  that  some  antique  statue  for  one  hour 

Might  wake  to  passion,  and  that  I  could  charm 
The  Dawn  at  Florence  from  its  dumb  despair 
Mix  with  those  mighty  limbs. and  make  that  giant  breast 
my  lair  ! 

Sing  on  !  sing  on  !  I  would  be  drunk  with  life, 
Drunk  with  the  trampled  vintage  of  my  youth, 

1  would  forget  the  wearying  wasted  strife, 
The  riven  vale,  the  Gorgon  eyes  of  Truth, 

The  prayerless  vigil  and  the  cry  for  prayer, 

The  barren  gifts,  the  lifted  arms,  the  dull  insensate  air  ! 

Sing  on  !  sing  on  !  O  feathered  Niobe, 

Thou  canst  make  sorrow  beautiful,  and  steal 

From  joy  its  sweetest  music,  not  as  we 

Who  by  dead  voiceless  silence  strive  to  heal 

Our  too  untented  wounds,  and  do  but  keep 

Pain  barricadoed  in  our  hearts,  and  murder  pillowed 
sleep. 


THE   BURDEN   OF   ITYS.  7/ 

Sing  louder  yet,  why  must  I  still  behold 
The  wan  white  face  of  that  deserted  Christ, 

Whose  bleeding  hands  my  hands  did  once  enfold, 
Whose  smitten  lips  my  lips  so  oft  have  kissed, 

And  now  in  mute  and  marble  misery 

Sits  in  his  lone  dishonoured  House  and  weeps,  perchance 
for  me. 

O  memory  cast  down  thy  Avreathed  shell ! 

Break  thy  hoarse  lute  O  sad  Melpomene  ! 
O  sorrow  sorrow  keep  thy  cloistered  cell 

Nor  dim  with  tears  this  limpid  Castaly  ! 
Cease,  cease,  sad  bird,  thou  dost  the  forest  wrong 
To  vex   its   sylvan   quiet   with    such    wild    impassioned 
song  ! 

Cease,  cease,  or  if  'tis  anguish  to  be  dumb 
Take  from  the  pastoral  thrush  her  simpler  air, 

Whose  jocund  carelessness  doth  more  become 
This  English  woodland  than  thy  keen  despair, 

Ah  !  cease  and  let  the  northwind  bear  thy  lay 

Back  to  the  rocky  hills  of  Thrace,  the  stormy  Daulian 
bay. 


78  THE   BURDEN   OF   ITYS. 

A  moment  more,  the  startled  leaves  had  stirred, 
Endymion  would  have  passed  across  the  mead 

Moonstruck  with  love,  and  this  still  Thames  had  heard 
Pan  plash  and  paddle  groping  for  some  reed 

To  lure  from  her  blue  cave  that  Naiad  maid 

Who  for  such  pipiiig  listens  half  in  joy  and  half  afraid. 

A  moment  more,  the  waking  dove  had  cooed, 

The  silver  daughter  of  the  silver  sea 
With  the  fond  gyves  of  clinging  hands  had  wooed 

Her  wanton  from  the  chase,  and  Dryope 
Had  thrust  aside  the  branches  of  her  oak 
To    see    the   lusty   gold-haired   lad   rein  in  his   snorting 
yoke. 

A  moment  more,  the  trees  had  stooped  to  kiss 
Pale  Daphne  just  awakening  from  the  swoon 

Of  tremulous  laurels,  lonely  Salmacis 

Had  bared  his  barren  beauty  to  the  moon, 

And  through  the  vale  with  sad  voluptuous  smile 

Antinous  had  wandered,  the  red  lotus  of  the  Nile 


THE   BURDEN    OF   ITYS.  79 

Down  leaning  from  his  black  and  clustering  hair 
To  shade  those  slumberous  eyelids'  caverned  bliss, 

Or  else  on  yonder  grassy  slope  with  bare 
High-tuniced  limbs  unravished  Artemis 

Had  bade  her  hounds  give  tongue,  and  roused  the  deer 

From  his  gi-een  ambuscade  with  shrill  halloo  and  pricking 
spear. 

Lie  still,  lie  still,  O  passionate  heart,  lie  still ! 

O  Melancholy,  fold  thy  raven  wing  ! 
O  sobbing  Dryad,  from  thy  hollow  hill 

Come  not  with  such  desponded  answering  ! 
No  more  thou  winged  Marsyas  complain, 
Apollo  loveth  not  to  hear  such  troubled  songs  of  pain  ! 


It  was  a  dream,  the  glade  is  tenantless. 

No  soft  Ionian  laughter  moves  the  air, 
The  Thames  creeps  on  in  sluggish  leadenness, 

And  from  the  copse  left  desolate  and  bare 
Fled  is  young  Bacchus  with  his  revelry. 
Yet  still  from  Nuneham  wood  there  comes  that  thrilling 
melody 


80  THE   BURDEN   OF   ITYS. 

So  sad,  that  one  might  thmk  a  human  heart 

Brake  in  each  separate  note,  a  quality 
Which  music  sometimes  has,  being  the  Art 

Which  is  most  nigh  to  tears  and  memory, 
Poor  mourning  Philomel,  what  dost  thou  fear? 
Thy  sister  doth  not  haunt  these  fields,  Pandion  is  not 
here, 

Here  is  no  cruel  Lord  with  murderous  blade, 

No  woven  web  of  bloody  heraldries. 
But  mossy  dells  for  roving  comrades  made. 

Warm  valleys  where  the  tired  student  lies 
With  half- shut  book,  and  many  a  winding  walk 
Where  rustic  lovers  stray  at  eve  in  happy  simple  talk. 


The  harmless  rabbit  gambols  with  its  young 
Across  the  trampled  towing-path,  where  late 

A  troop  of  laughing  boys  in  josding  throng 

Cheered  with  their  noisy  cries  the  racing  eight ; 

The  gossamer,  with  ravelled  silver  threads. 

Works  at  its  little  loom,  and  from  the  dusky  red-eaved 
sheds 


THE   BURDEN    CF   ITYS.  8 1 

Of  the  lone  Farm  a  flickering  light  shines  out 

Where  the  swinked  shepherd  drives  his  bleating  flock 

Back  to  their  wattled  sheep-cotes,  a  faint  shout 
Comes  from  some  Oxford  boat  at  Sandford  lock, 

And  starts  the  moor-hen  from  the  sedgy  rill, 

And  the  dim  lengthening  shadows  flit  like  swallows  up  the 
hill. 


The  heron  passes  homeward  to  the  mere, 

The  blue  mist  creeps  among  the  shivering  trees, 

Gold  world  by  world  the  silent  stars  appear, 
And  like  a  blossom  blov*ii  before  the  breeze, 

A  white  moon  drifts  across  the  shimmering  sky. 

Mute  arbitress  of  all  thy  sad,  thy  rapturous  threnody. 

She  does  not  heed  thee,  Vv'herefore  should  she  heed, 
She  knows  Endymion  is  not  far  away, 

'Tis  I,  'tis  I,  whose  soul  is  as  the  reed 
Which  has  no  message  of  its  own  to  play. 

So  pipes  another's  bidding,  it  is  I, 

Drifting  with  every  wind  on  the  wide  sea  of  misery. 

6 


S2  THE  BURDEN   OF  TTYS. 

Ah  !  the  brown  bird  has  ceased  :  one  exquisite  trill 
About  the  sombre  woodland  seems  to  cling, 

Dying  in  music,  else  the  air  is  still, 

So  still  that  one  might  hear  the  bat's  small  wing 

Wander  and  wheel  above  the  pines,  or  tell 

Each   tiny  dewdrop  dripping  from  the  blue-bell's  brim- 
ming cell. 

And  far  away  across  the  lengthening  wold. 
Across  the  willowy  flats  and  thickets  brown, 

Magdalen's  tall  tower  tipped  with  tremulous  gold 
Marks  the  long  High  Street  of  the  little  town. 

And  warns  me  to  return ;  I  must  not  wait. 

Hark  !   'tis  the  curfew  booming  from  the  bell  at  Christ 
Church  gate. 


IMPRESSION   DU    MATIN. 


i^^   "7^'-   ■'-85--'  ''     A^n^, 

IMPRESSION   DU   MATIN.  "^ 

The  Thames  nocturne  of  blue  and  gold 

Changed  to  a  Harmony  in  grey : 

A  barge  with  ochre-coloured  hay 
Dropt  from  the  wharf :  and  chill  and  cold 

The  yellow  fog  came  creeping  down 
The  bridges,  till  the  houses'  walls 
Seemed  changed  to  shadows,  and  S.  Paul's 

Loomed  like  a  bubble  o'er  the  town. 

Then  suddenly  arose  the  clang 

Of  waking  life  ;  the  streets  were  stirred 
With  country  waggons  :  and  a  bird 

Flew  to  the  glistening  roofs  and  sang. 

But  one  pale  woman  all  alone. 
The  daylight  kissing  her  wan  hair. 
Loitered  beneath  the  gas  lamps'  flare. 

With  lips  of  flame  and  heart  of  stone. 


86 


MAGDALEN   WALKS. 

The  little  white  clouds  are  racing  over  the  sky, 

And  the  fields  are  strewn  with  the  gold  of  the  flower  of 

T^Iarch, 
The  daffodil  breaks  under  foot,  and  the  tasselled  larch 

Sways  and  swings  as  the  thrush  goes  hurrying  by. 

A  delicate  odour  is  borne  on  the  wings  of  the  morning 
breeze. 
The  odour  of  leaves,  and  of  gi*ass,  and  of  newly  up- 
turned earth. 
The  birds  are  singing  for  joy  of  the  Spring's  glad  birth, 
Hopping  from  branch  to  branch  on  the  rocking  trees. 

And  all  the  woods  are  alive  with  the  murmur  and  sound  of 
Spring, 
And    the   rosebud  breaks  into  pink   on    the    climbing 
briar. 


MAGDALEN   WALKS.  8/ 

And  the  crocus-bed  is  a  quivering  moon  of  fire 
Girdled  round  witli  the  belt  of  an  amethyst  ring. 

And  the  plane  to  the  pine-tree  is  whispering  some  tale  of 
love 
Till    it  rustles  with  laughter  and  tosses  its   mantle    of 

green, 
And  the  gloom  of  the  wych-elm's  hollow  is  lit  with  the 
iris  sheen 
Of  the  burnished  rainbow  throat  and  the  silver  breast  of 

* 

a  dove. 

See  !  the  lark  starts  up  from  his  bed  in  the  meadow  there, 
Breaking  the  gossamer  threads  and  the  nets  of  dew, 
And  flashing  a-down  the  river,  a  flame  of  blue  ! 

The  kingfisher  flies  like  an  arrow,  and  wounds  the  air. 


88 


ATHANASIA. 

To  that  gaunt  House  of  Art  which  lacks  for  naught 
Of  all  the  great  things  men  have  saved  from  Time, 

The  withered  body  of  a  girl  was  brought 

Dead  ere  the  world's  glad  youth  had  touched  its  prime, 

And  seen  by  lonely  Arabs  lying  hid 

In  the  dim  womb  of  some  black  pyramid. 

But  when  they  had  unloosed  the  linen  band 

Which  swathed  the  Egyptian's  body,  —  lo  !  was  found 

Closed  in  the  wasted  hollow  of  her  hand 
A  little  seed,  which  sown  in  English  ground 

Did  wondrous  snow  of  starry  blossoms  bear, 

And  spread  rich  odours  through  our  springtide  air. 

With  such  strange  arts  this  flower  did  allure 

That  all  forgotten  was  the  asphodel, 
And  the  brown  bee,  the  Hly's  paramour. 

Forsook  the  cup  where  he  was  wont  to  dwell. 


ATHANASIA.  89 

For  not  a  thing  of  earth  it  seemed  to  be, 
But  stolen  from  some  heavenly  Arcady. 

In  vain  the  sad  narcissus,  wan  and  white 
At  its  own  beauty,  hung  across  the  stream, 

The  purple  dragon-fly  had  no  delight 

With  its  gold  dust  to  make  his  wings  a-gleam. 

Ah  !  no  delight  the  jasmine-bloom  to  kiss, 

Or  brush  the  rain-pearls  from  the  eucharis. 

For  love  of  it  the  passionate  nightingale 
Forgot  the  hills  of  Thrace,  the  cruel  king, 

And  the  pale  dove  no  longer  cared  to  sail 

Through  the  wet  woods  at  time  of  blossoming, 

But  round  this  flower  of  Egypt  sought  to  float. 

With  silvered  wing  and  amethystine  throat. 

W'hile  the  hot  sun  blazed  in  his  tower  of  blue 
A  cooling  wind  crept  from  the  land  of  snows, 

And  the  warm  south  wilji  tender  tears  of  dew 
Drenched  its  white  leaves  when  Hesperos  uprose 

Amid  those  sea-green  meadows  of  the  sky 

On  which  the  scai-let  bars  of  sunset  he. 


90  ATHANASIA. 

But  when  o'er  wastes  of  lily-haunted  field 

The  tired  birds  had  stayed  their  amorous  tune. 

And  broad  and  glittering  like  an  argent  shield 
High  in  the  sapphire  heavens  hung  the  moon, 

Did  no  strange  dream  or  evil  memory  make 

Each  tremulous  petal  of  its  blossoms  shake  ? 

Ah  no  !  to  this  bright  flower  a  thousand  years 

Seemed  but  the  lingering  of  a  summer's  day, 
It  never  knew  the  tide  of  cankering  fears 
■  Which  turn  a  boy's  gold  hair  to  withered  grey, 
The  dread  desire  of  death  it  never  knew, 
Or  how  all  folk  that  they  were  born  must  rue. 

For  we  to  death  with  pipe  and  dancing  go. 
Nor  would  we  pass  the  ivory  gate  again. 

As  some  sad  river  wearied  of  its  flow 

Through  the  dull  plains,  the  haunts  of  common  men, 

Leaps  lover-like  into  the  terrible  sea  ! 

And  counts  it  gain  to  die  so  gloriously. 

We  mar  our  lordly  strength  in  barren  strife 

With  the  world's  legions  led  by  clamorous  care. 


ATHANASIA.  9 1 

It  never  feels  decay  but  gathers  life 

From  the  pure  sunlight  and  the  supreme  air, 
We  live  beneath  Time's  wasting  sovereignty, 
It  is  the  child  of  all  eternity. 


92 


SERENADE. 
.     (for  music.) 

The  western  wind  is  blowing  fair 

Across  the  dark  ^gean  sea, 
And  at  the  secret  marble  stair 

My  Tyrian  galley  waits  for  thee. 
Come  down  !  the  purple  sail  is  spread, 

The  watchman  sleeps  within  the  town, 
O  leave  thy  lily-flowered  bed, 

O  Lady  mine  come  down,  come  down  ! 

She  will  not  come,  I  know  her  well, 

Of  lover's  vows  she  hath  no  care. 
And  little  good  a  man  can  tell 

Of  one  so  cruel  and  so  fair. 
True  love  is  but  a  woman's  toy. 

They  never  know  the  lover's  pain. 
And  I  who  loved  as  loves  a  boy 

Must  love  in  vain,  must  love  in  vain. 


SERENADE.  93 

O  noble  pilot  tell  me  true 

Is  that  the  sheen  of  golden  hair? 
Or  is  it  but  the  tangled  dew 

That  binds  the  passion-flowers  there  ? 
Good  sailor  come  and  tell  me  now 

Is  that  my  Lady's  lily  hand  ? 
Or  is  it  but  the  gleaming  prow, 

Or  is  it  but  the  silver  sand  ? 


No  !  no  !  'tis  not  the  tangled  dew, 

'Tis  not  the  silver-fretted  sand, 
It  is  my  own  dear  Lady  true 

With  golden  hair  and  lily  hand  ! 
O  noble  pilot  steer  for  Troy, 

Good  sailor  ply  the  labouring  oar. 
This  is  the  Queen  of  life  and  joy 

Whom  we  must  bear  from  Grecian  shore  ! 

The  waning  sky  grows  faint  and  blue. 

It  wants  an  hour  still  of  day, 
Aboard  !  aboard  !  my  gallant  crew, 

O  Lady  mine  away  !  away  ! 


94  SERENADE. 

O  noble  pilot  steer  for  Troy, 

Good  sailor  ply  the  labouring  oar, 
I  O  loved  as  only  loves  a  boy  ! 
O  loved  for  ever  evermore  ! 


ENDYMION. 

(for  music.) 

The  apple  trees  are  hung  with  gold, 

And  birds  are  loud  in  Arcady, 
The  sheep  lie  bleating  in  the  fold, 
The  wild  goat  runs  across  the  wold, 
But  yesterday  his  love  he  told, 

I  know  he  will  come  back  to  me. 
O  rising  moon  !     O  Lady  moon  ! 

Be  you  my  lover's  sentinel, 

You  cannot  choose  but  know  him  well. 
For  he  is  shod  with  purple  shoon. 
You  cannot  choose  but  know  my  love. 

For  he  a  shepherd's  crook  doth  bear, 
And  he  is  soft  as  any  dove. 

And  brown  and  curly  is  his  haii-. 

The  turtle  now  has  ceased  to  call 

Upon  her  crimson-footed  groom, 
The  grey  wolf  prowls  about  the  stall. 


96  ENDYMION. 

The  lily's  singing  seneschal 
Sleeps  in  the  lily-bell,  and  all 

The  violet  hills  are  lost  in  gloom. 
O  risen  moon  !     O  holy  moon  ! 

Stand  on  the  top  of  Helice, 
*         And  if  my  own  true  love  you  see, 
Ah  !  if  you  see  the  purple  shoon, 
The  hazel  crook,  the  lad's  brown  hair. 

The  goat-skin  wrapped  about  his  arm, 
Tell  him  that  I  am  waiting  where 

The  rushlight  glimmers  in  the  Farm. 


The  falling  dew  is  cold  and  chill, 

And  no  bird  sings  in  Arcady, 
The  little  fauns  have  left  the  hill. 
Even  the  tired  daffodil 
Has  closed  its  gilded  doors,  and  still 

My  lover  comes  not  back  to  me. 
False  moon  !    False  moon  !    O  waning  moon  ! 

Where  is  my  own  true  lover  gone, 

Where  are  the  lips  vermilion, 
The  shepherd's  crook,  the  purple  shoon  ? 


ENDYMION.  97 

Why  spread  that  silver  pavilion, 

Why  wear  that  veil  of  drifting  mist  ? 

Ah  !  thou  hast  young  Endymion, 

Thou  hast  the  lips  that  should  be  kissed  ! 


98 


LA  BELLA  DONNA  BELLA  MIA  MENTE. 

My  limbs  are  wasted  with  a  flame, 
My  feet  are  sore  with  travelling, 

For  calling  on  my  Lady's  name 
My  lips  have  now  forgot  to  sing. 

O  Linnet  in  the  wild-rose  brake 
Strain  for  my  Love  thy  melody, 

O  Lark  sing  louder  for  love's  sake, 
My  gentle  Lady  passeth  by. 

She  is  too  fair  for  any  man 

To  see  or  hold  his  heart's  delight, 

Fairer  than  Queen  or  courtezan 
Or  moon-lit  water  in  the  night. 

Her  hair  is  bound  with  myrtle  leaves, 
(Green  leaves  upon  her  golden  hair  !) 

Green  grasses  through  the  yellow  sheaves 
Of  autumn  corn  are  not  more  fair. 


LA  BELLA  DONNA  BELLA  MIA  MENTE.    99 

Her  little  lips,  more  made  to  kiss 

Than  to  cry  bitterly  for  pain, 
Are  tremulous  as  brook-water  is, 

Or  roses  after  evening  rain. 

Her  neck  is  like  white  melilote 

Flushing  for  pleasure  of  the  sun, 
The  throbbing  of  the  linnet's  throat 

Is  not  so  sweet  to  look  upon. 

As  a  pomegranate,  cut  in  twain, 

White-seeded,  is  her  crimson  mouth. 

Her  cheeks  are  as  the  fading  stain 

Where  the  peach  reddens  to  the  south. 

O  twining  hands  !     O  delicate 

White  body  made  for  love  and  pain  ! 

O  House  of  love  !     O  desolate 
Pale  flower  beaten  by  the  rain  ! 


lOO 


CHANSON. 

A  RING  of  gold  and  a  milk-white  dove 

Are  goodly  gifts  for  thee, 
And  a  hempen  rope  for  your  own  love 

To  hang  upon  a  tree. 

For  you  a  House  of  Ivory 

(Roses  are  white  in  the  rose-bower)  ! 
A  narrow  bed  for  me  to  lie 

(White,  O  white,  is  the  hemlock  flower)  ! 

Myrtle  and  jessamine  for  you 
(O  the  red  rose  is  fair  to  see)  ! 

For  me  the  cypress  and  the  rue 
(Fairest  of  all  is  rose-mary)  ! 

For  you  three  lovers  of  your  hand 

(Green  grass  where  a  man  lies  dead)  ! 

For  me  three  paces  on  the  sand 
(Plant  lilies  at  my  head)  ! 


CHARMIDES. 


J/-  ^^' 


i  ^    '    '    > 


"J^.i  .  ._  ...    iJ-  c 


He  was  a  Grecian  lad,  who  coming  home 

With  pulpy  figs  and  wine  from  Sicily 
Stood  at  his  galley's  prow,  and  let  the  foam 

Blow  through  his  crisp  brown  curls  unconsciously, 
And  holding  wave  and  wind  in  boy's  despite 
Peered  from  his  dripping  seat  across  the  wet  and  stormy 
night 

Till  with  the  da\\Ti  he  saw  a  burnished  spear 
Like  a  thin  tliread  of  gold  against  the  sky. 

And  hoisted  sail,  and  strained  the  creaking  gear, 
And  bade  the  pilot  head  her  lustily 

Against  the  nor'west  gale,  and  all  day  long 

Held  on  his  way,  and  marked  the  rowers'  time  with  meas- 
ured song. 


,t  r     ^t  ,  c  c  r    . 


'toA:/;  v'c^'  W;  :     ;  charmides. 

And  when  the  faint  Corinthian  hills  were  red 

Dropped  anchor  in  a  little  sandy  bay, 
And  with  fresh  boughs  of  olive  crowned  his  head, 

And  brushed  from  cheek  and  throat  the  hoary  spray, 
And  washed  his  limbs  with  oil,  and  from  the  hold 
Brought  out  his  linen  tunic  and  his  sandals  brazen-soled. 

And  a  rich  robe  stained  with  the  fishes'  juice 
Which  of  some  swarthy  trader  he  had  bought 

Upon  the  sunny  quay  at  Syracuse, 

And  was  with  Tyrian  broideries  inwrought. 

And  by  the  questioning  merchants  made  his  way 

Up  through  the  soft  and  silver  woods,  and  when  the  la- 
bouring day 

Had  spun  its  tangled  web  of  crimson  cloud, 
Clomb  the  high  hill,  and  with  swift  silent  feet 

Crept  to  the  fane  unnoticed  by  the  crowd 
Of  busy  priests,  and  from  some  dark  retreat 

Watched  the  young  swains  his  frolic  playmates  bring 

The   firstling  of  their  little  flock,  and  the  shy  shepherd 
fling 


CHARMIDES.  IO5 

The  crackling  salt  upon  the  flame,  or  hang 
His  studded  crook  against  the  temple  wall 

To  Her  who  keeps  away  the  ravenous  fang 

Of  the  base  wolf  from  homestead  and  from  stall ; 

And  then  the  clear- voiced  maidens  'gan  to  sing, 

And  to  the  altar  each  man  brought  some  goodly  offering, 

A  beechen  cup  brimming  with  milky  foam, 
A  fair  cloth  wrought  with  cunning  imagery 

Of  hounds  in  chase,  a  waxen  honey-comb 

Dripping  with  oozy  gold  which  scarce  the  bee 

Had  ceased  from  building,  a  black  skin  of  oil 

Meet  for  the  wrestlers,  a  great  boar  the  fierce  and  white- 
tusked  spoil 

Stolen  from  Artemis  that  jealous  maid 

To  please  Athena,  and  the  dappled  hide 
Of  a  tall  stag  who  in  some  mountain  glade 

Had  met  the  shaft ;  and  then  the  herald  cried, 
And  from  the  pillared  precinct  one  by  one 
Went  the  glad  Greeks  well  pleased  that  they  their  simple 
vows  had  done. 


I06  CHARMIDES. 

And  the  old  priest  put  out  the  waning  fires 
Save  that  one  lamp  whose  restless  ruby  glowed 

For  ever  in  the  cell,  and  the  shrill  lyres 

Came  fainter  on  the  wind,  as  down  the  road 

In  joyous  dance  these  country  folk  did  pass. 

And   with   stout   hands  the  warder  closed  the  gates  of 
pohshed  brass. 

« 

Long  time  he  lay  and  hardly  dared  to  breathe, 
And  heard  the  cadenced  drip  of  spilt-out  wine, 

And  the  rose-petals  falling  from  the  wreath 

As  the  night  breezes  wandered  through  the  shrine, 

And  seemed  to  be  in  some  entranced  swoon 

Till  through  the  open  roof  above  the  full  and  brimming 
moon 

Flooded  with  sheeny  waves  the  marble  floor. 
When  from  his  nook  upleapt  the  venturous  lad. 

And  flinging  wide  the  cedar-carven  door 
Beheld  an  awful  image  saffron- clad 

And  armed  for  battle  !  the  gaunt  Griflin  glared 

From  the  huge  helm,  and  the  long  lance  of  wreck  and 
ruin  flared 


CHARMIDES.  10/ 

Like  a  red  rod  of  flame,  stony  and  steeled 
The  Gorgon's  head  its  leaden  eyeballs  rolled, 

And  writhed  its  snaky  horrors  through  the  shield, 
And  gaped  aghast  with  bloodless  lips  and  cold 

In  passion  impotent,  while  with  blind  gaze 

The   blinking   owl    between    the    feet   hooted    in    shrill 
amaze. 

The  lonely  fisher  as  he  trimmed  his  lamp 

Far  out  at  sea  off  Sunium,  or  cast 
The  net  for  tunnies,  heard  a  brazen  tramp 

Of  horses  smite  the  waves,  and  a  wild  blast 
Divide  the  folded  curtains  of  the  night, 
And   knelt   upon   the  little  poop,   and  prayed    in    holy 
fright. 

And  guilty  lovers  in  their  venery 

Forgat  a  little  while  their  stolen  sweets, 
Deeming  they  heard  dread  Dian's  bitter  cry ; 

And  the  grim  watchmen  on  their  lofty  seats 
Ran  to  their  shields  in  haste  precipitate. 
Or    strained    black-bearded    throats     across    the     dusky 
parapet. 


I08  CHARMIDES. 

For  round  the  temple  rolled  the  clang  of  arms, 
And  the  twelve  Gods  leapt  up  m  marble  fear, 

And  the  air  quaked  with  dissonant  alarums 
Till  huge  Poseidon  shook  his  mighty  spear. 

And  on  the  frieze  the  prancing  horses  neighed. 

And  the  low  tread  of  hurrying  feet  rang  from  the  caval- 
cade. 

Ready  for  death  with  parted  lips  he  stood, 

And  well  content  at  such  a  price  to  see 
That  calm  wide  brow,  that  terrible  maidenhood. 

The  marvel  of  that  pitiless  chastity, 
Ah  !  well  content  indeed,  for  never  wight 
Since  Troy's  young  shepherd  prince  had  seen  so  wonder- 
ful a  sight. 

Ready  for  death  he  stood,  but  lo  !  the  air 
Grew  silent,  and  the  horses  ceased  to  neigh, 

And  off  his  brow  he  tossed  the  clustering  hair, 
And  from  his  limbs  he  threw  the  cloak  away. 

For  whom  would  not  such  love  make  desperate. 

And  nigher  came,  and  touched  her  tliroat,  and  with  hands 
violate 


CHARMIDES.  IO9 

Undid  the  cuirass,  and  the  crocus  gown, 

And  bared  the  breasts  of  polished  ivory, 
Till  from  the  waist  the  peplos  falling  down 

Left  visible  the  secret  mystery 
Which  to  no  lover  will  Athena  show. 
The  grand  cool  flanks,  the  crescent  thighs,  the  bossy  hills 
of  snow. 

Those  who  have  never  known  a  lover's  sin 

Let  them  not  read  my  ditty,  it  will  be 
To  their  dull  ears  so  musicless  and  thin 

That  they  will  have  no  joy  of  it,  but  ye 
To  whose  wan  cheeks  now  creeps  the  lingering  smile, 
Ye  who  have  learned  who  Eros  is,  —  O  hsten  yet  a-while. 

A  little  space  he  let  his  greedy  eyes 

Rest  on  the  burnished  image,  till  mere  sight 

Half  swooned  for  surfeit  of  such  luxuries, 
And  then  his  lips  in  hungering  delight 

Fed  on  her  lips,  and  round  the  towered  neck 

He  flung  his  arms,  nor  cared  at  all  his  passion's  will  to 
check. 


no  CHARMIDES. 

Never  I  ween  did  lover  hold  such  tryst, 

-     For  all  night  long  he  murmured  honeyed  word, 

And  saw  her  sweet  unravished  limbs,  and  kissed 

Her  pale  and  argent  body  undisturbed, 
And  paddled  with  the  poHshed  throat,  and  pressed 
His  hot  and  beating  heart  upon  her  chill  and  icy  breast. 

It  was  as  if  Numidian  javelins    * 

Pierced    through   and   through   his   wild   and   whirling 
brain, 
And  his  nerves  thrilled  hke  throbbing  violins 

In  exquisite  pulsation,  and  the  pain 
Was  such  sweet  anguish  that  he  never  drew 
His  lips  from  hers  till  overhead  the  lark  of  warning  flew. 

They  who  have  never  seen  the  daylight  peer 
Into  a  darkened  room,  and  drawn  the  curtain. 

And  with  dull  eyes  and  wearied  from  some  dear 
And  worshipped  body  risen,  they  for  certain 

Will  never  know  of  what  I  try  to  sing. 

How  long  the  last  kiss  was,  how  fond  and  late  his  linger- 
ing. 


CHARMIDES.  1 1 1 

The  moon  was  girdled  with  a  crystal  rim^ 

The  sign  which  shipmen  say  is  ominous 
Of  wrath  in  heaven,  the  wan  stars  were  dim, 

And  the  low  lightening  east  was  tremulous 
With  the  faint  fluttering  wings  of  flying  dawn, 
Ere  from  the  silent  sombre  shrine  this  lover  had   with- 
drawn. 

Down  the  steep  rock  with  hurried  feet  and  fast 

Clomb  the  brave  lad,  and  reached  the  cave  of  Pan, 

And  heard  the  goat-foot  snoring  as  he  passed, 
And  leapt  upon  a  grassy  knoll  and  ran 

Like  a  young  fawn  unto  an  olive  wood 

Which  in  a  shady  valley  by  the  well-built  city  stood. 

And  sought  a  little  stream,  which  well  he  knew, 

For  oftentimes  with  boyish  careless  shout 
The  green  and  crested  grebe  he  would  pursue. 

Or  snare  in  woven  net  the  silver  trout. 
And  down  amid  the  starded  reeds  he  lay 
Panting  in  breathless  sweet  affright,  and  waited  for  the 
day. 


112  '  CHARMIDES. 

On  the  green  bank  he  lay,  and  let  one  hand 

Dip  in  the  cool  dark  eddies  listlessly, 
And  soon  the  breath  of  morning  came  and  fanned 

His  hot  flushed  cheeks,  or  hfted  wantonly 
The  tangled  curls  from  off  his  forehead,  while 
He  on  the  running  water  gazed  with  strange  and  secret 
smile. 

And  soon  the  shepherd  in  rough  woollen  cloak 
With  his  long  crook  undid  the  wattled  cotes, 

And  from  the  stack  a  thin  blue  wreath  of  smoke 
Curled  through  the  air  across  the  ripening  oats, 

And  on  the  hill  the  yellow  house-dog  bayed 

As  through  the  crisp  and  rustling   fern  the  heavy  cattle 
strayed. 

And  when  the  light-foot  mower  went  afield 
Across  the  meadows  laced  with  threaded  dew, 

And  the  sheep  bleated  on  the  misty  weald, 
And  from  its  nest  the  waking  corn-crake  flew. 

Some  woodmen  saw  him  lying  by  the  stream 

And  marvelled  much  that  any  lad  so  beautiful  could  seem, 


CHARMIDES.  II3 

Nor  deemed  him  bom  of  mortals,  and  one  said, 

''It  is  young  Hylas,  that  false  runaway 
Who  with  a  Naiad  now  would  make  his  bed 

Forgetting  Herakles,"  but  others,  "  Nay, 
It  is  Narcissus,  his  own  paramour, 

Those  are    the    fond   and   crimson    lips   no   woman  can 
allure." 

And  when  they  nearer  came  a  third  one  cried, 

"  It  is  young  Dionysos  who  has  hid 
His  spear  and  fawnskin  by  the  river  side 

Weary  of  hunting  with  the  Bassarid, 
And  wise  indeed  were  we  away  to  fly 
They  live  not  long  who  on  the  gods  immortal  come  to 
spy." 

So  turned  they  back,  and  feared  to  look  behind. 
And  told  the  timid  swain  how  they  had  seen 

Amid  the  reeds  some  woodland  God  reclined. 
And  no  man  dared  to  cross  the  open  green. 

And  on  that  day  no  olive-tree  was  slain. 

Nor  rushes  cut,  but  all  deserted  was  the  fair  domain. 

8 


I  14  CHARMIDES. 

Save  when  the  neat-herd's  lad,  his  empty  pail 
Well  slung  upon  his  back,  with  leap  and  bound 

Raced  on  the  other  side,  and  stopped  to  hail 
Hoping  that  he  some  comrade  new  had  found, 

And  gat  no  answer,  and  then  half  afraid 

Passed  on  his  simple  way,  or  down  the  still  and  silent 
glade 

A  little  girl  ran  laughing  from  the  farm 

Not  thinking  of  love's  secret  mysteries, 
And  when  she  saw  the  white  and  gleaming  arm 

And  all  his  manlihood,  with  longing  eyes 
Whose  passion  mocked  her  sweet  virginity 
Watched  him   a- while,  and   then  stole   back   sadly  and 
wearily. 

Far  off  he  heard  the  city's  hum  and  noise, 
And  now  and  then  the  shriller  laughter  where 

The  passionate  purity  of  brown-limbed  boys 
Wrestled  or  raced  in  the  clear  healthful  air, 

And  now  and  then  a  little  tinkling  bell 

Vs  the  shorn  wether  led  the  sheep  down  to  the  mossy  well. 


CHARMIDES.  I  I  5 

Through  the  grey  willows  danced  the  fretful  gnat, 
The  grasshopper  chirped  idly  from  the  tree, 

In  sleek  and  oily  coat  the  water-rat 
Breasting  the  little  ripples  manfully 

Made  for  the  wild-duck's  nest,  from  bough  to  bough 

Hopped  the  shy  finch,  and  the  huge  tortoise  crept  across 
the  slough. 

On  the  faint  wind  floated  the  silky  seeds, 

As  the  bright  scythe  swept  through  the  waving  grass. 

The  ousel-cock  splashed  circles  in  the  reeds  . 
And  flecked  with  silver  whorls  the  forest's  glass, 

Which  scarce  had  caught  again  its  imagery 

Ere  from  its  bed  the  dusky  tench  leapt  at  the  dragon- 
fly. 

But  little  care  had  he  for  any  thing 

Though  up  and  down  the  beech  the  squirrel  played, 
And  from  the  copse  the  linnet  'gan  to  sing 

To  her  brown  mate  her  sweetest  serenade. 
Ah  !  little  care  indeed,  for  he  had  seen 
The   breasts   of    Pallas   and   the   naked   wonder   of  the 
Queen. 


Il6  CHARMIDES. 

But  when  the  herdsman  called  his  straggling  goats 

With  whistling  pipe  across  the  rocky  road, 
And  the  shard-beetle  with  its  trumpet-notes 

Boomed  through  the  darkening  woods,  and  seemed  to 
bode 
Of  coming  storm,  and  the  belated  crane 
Passed  homeward  like  a  shadow,  and  the  dull  big  drops 
of  rain 

Fell  on  the  pattering  fig-leaves,  up  he  rose, 

And  from  the  gloomy  forest  went  his  way 
Past  sombre  homestead  and  wet  orchard-close, 

And  came  at  last  unto  a  little  quay, 
And  called  his  mates  a-board,  and  took  his  seat 
On  the  high  poop,  and  pushed  from  land,  and  loosed  the 
dripping  sheet. 

And  steered  across  the  bay,  and  when  nine  suns 
Passed  down  the  long  and  laddered  v/ay  of  gold, 

And  nine  pale  moons  had  breathed  their  orisons 
To  the  chaste  stars  their  confessors,  or  told 

Their  dearest  secret  to  the  downy  moth 

That  will  not  fly  at  noonday,  through  the  foam  and  surging 
froth 


« 


CHARMIDES.  II7 

Came  a  great  owl  with  yellow  sulphurous  eyes 
And  \i\  upon  the  ship,  whose  timbers  creaked 

As  though  the  lading  of  three  argosies 

Were  in  the  hold,  and  flapped  its  wings,  and  shrieked. 

And  darkness  straightway  stole  across  the  deep, 

Sheathed  was  Orion's  sword,  dread  Mars  himself  fled  down 
the  steep. 

And  the  moon  hid  behind  a  tawny  mask 

Of  drifting  cloud,  and  from  the  ocean's  marge 

Rose  the  red  plume,  the  huge  and  horned  casque, 
The  seven-cubit  spear,  the  brazen  targe  ! 

And  clad  in  bright  and  burnished  panoply 

Athena  strode   across   the   stretch  of  sick  and  shivering 
sea  ! 

To  the  dull  sailors'  sight  her  loosened  locks 

Seemed  like  the  jagged  storm-rack,  and  her  feet 

Only  the  spume  that  floats  on  hidden  rocks. 
And  marking  how  the  rising  waters  beat 

Against  the  rolling  ship,  the  pilot  cried 

To  the  young  helmsman  at  the  stern  to  luff  to  windward 
side. 


Il8  CHARMIDES. 

But  he,  the  over-bold  adulterer, 

A  dear  profaner  of  great  mysteries, 
An  ardent  amorous  idolater. 

When  he  beheld  those  grand  relentless  eyes 
Laughed  loud  for  joy,  and  crying  out  "  I  come  " 
Leapt  from  the  lofty  poop  into  the  chill  and  churning 
foam. 

Then  fell  from  the  high  heaven  one  bright  star, 

One  dancer  left  the  circling  galaxy, 
And  back  to  Athens  on  her  clattering  car 

In  all  the  pride  of  venged  divinity 
Pale  Pallas  swept  with  shrill  and  steely  clank, 
And  a  few  gurgling  bubbles  rose  where  her  boy  lover 
sank. 

And  the  mast  shuddered  as  the  gaunt  owl  flew 
With  mocking  hoots  after  the  wrathful  Queen, 

And  the  old  pilot  bade  the  trembhng  crew 
Hoist  the  big  sail,  and  told  how  he  had  seen 

Close  to  the  stern  a  dim  and  giant  form. 

And  like  a  dipping  swallow  the  stout  ship  dashed  through 
the  storm. 


CHARMIDES.  I K 


^ 


And  no  man  dared  to  speak  of  Charmides 

Deeming  that  he  some  evil  thing  had  wrought, 

And  when  they  reached  the  strait  Symplegades 

They  beached  their  galley  on  the  shore,  and  sought 

The  toll-gate  of  the  city  hastily, 

And    in   the  market  showed   their  brown   and  pictured 
pottery. 


120  CHARMIDES. 


II. 


But  some  good  Triton-god  had  ruth,  and  bare 
The  boy's  drowned  body  back  to  Grecian  land. 

And  mermaids  combed  his  dank  and  dripping  hair 

And  smoothed  his  brow,  and  loosed  his  clenching  hand, 

Some  brought  sweet  spices  from  far  Araby, 

And  others  bade  the  halcyon  sing  her  softest  lullaby. 


And  when  he  n eared  his  old  Athenian  home, 

A  mighty  billow  rose  up  suddenly 
Upon  whose  oily  back  the  clotted  foam 

Lay  diapered  in  some  strange  fantasy, 
And  clasping  him  unto  its  glassy  breast. 
Swept  landward,  like   a  white-maned  steed  upon  a  ven- 
turous quest ! 


CHARMIDES.  121 

Now  where  Colonos  leans  unto  the  sea 

There  lies  a  long  and  level  stretch  of  lawn, 
The  rabbit  knows  it,  and  the  mountain  bee 

For  it  deserts  Hymettus,  and  the  Faun 
Is  not  afraid,  for  never  through  the  day- 
Comes  a  cry  ruder  than   the   shout  of  shepherd  lads  at 
play. 

But  often  from  the  thorny  labyrinth 

And  tangled  branches  of  the  circhng  wood 

The  stealthy  hunter  sees  young  Hyacinth 

Hurling  the  polished  disk,  and  draws  his  hood 

Over  his  guilty  gaze,  and  creeps  away. 

Nor  dares  to  wind  his  horn,  or —  else  at  the  first  break 
of  day 

The  Dryads  come  and  throw  the  leathern  ball 

Along  the  reedy  shore,  and  circumvent 
Some  goat-eared  Pan  to  be  their  seneschal 

For  fear  of  bold  Poseidon's  ravishment. 
And  loose  their  girdles,  with  shy  timorous  eyes, 
Lest  from  the  surf  his  azure  arms  and  purple  beard  should 
rise. 


122  CHARMIDES. 

On  this  side  and  on  that  a  rocky  cave, 

Hung  with  the  yellow-bell'd  laburnum,  stands, 
Smooth  is  the  beach,  save  where  some  ebbing  wave 
^     Leaves  its  faint  outhne  etched  upon  the  sands. 
As  though  it  feared  to  be  too  soon  forgot 
By  the  green  rush,  its  playfellow,  —  and  yet,  it  is  a  spot 


So  small,  that  the  inconstant  butterfly 

Could  steal  the  hoarded  honey  from  each  flower 

Ere  it  was  noon,  and  still  not  satisfy 
Its  over-greedy  love,  —  within  an  hour 

A  sailor  boy,  were  he  but  rude  enow 

To    land   and   pluck   a  garland  for  his  galley's    painted 
prow. 


Would  almost  leave  the  little  meadow  bare, 
For  it  knows  nothing  of  great  pageantry, 

Only  a  few  narcissi  here  and  there 
Stand  separate  in  sweet  austerity, 

Dotting  the  unmown  grass  with  silver  stars, 

And  here  and  there  a  daffodil  waves  tiny  scimetars. 


CHARM  IDES.  '         1 23 

Hither  the  billow  brought  him,  and  was  glad 
Of  such  dear  ser\'itude,  and  where  the  land 

Was  virgin  of  all  waters  laid  the  lad 

Upon  the  golden  margent  of  the  strand, 

And  like  a  lingering  lover  oft  returned 

To  kiss  those  pallid  limbs  which  once  with  intense  fire 
burned, 

Ere  the  wet  seas  had  quenched  that  holocaust. 
That  self-fed  flame,  that  passionate  lustil"i€ad, 

Ere  grisly  death  with  chill  and  nipping  frost 
Had  withered  up  those  lilies  white  and  red 

Which,  while  the  boy  would  through  the  forest  range. 

Answered    each   other   in   a   sweet    antiphonal    counter- 
change. 

And  when  at  dawn  the  woodnymphs,  hand-in- hand, 
Threaded  the  bosky  dell,  their  sat}T  spied 

The  boy's  pale  body  stretched  upon  the  sand. 
And  feared  Poseidon's  treachery,  and  cried. 

And  like  bright  sunbeams  flitting  through  a  glade. 

Each   startled    Dryad    sought   some   safe    and   leafy  am- 
buscade. 


124  CHAR:^IIDES. 

Save  one  white  girl,  who  deemed  it  would  not  be 
So  dread  a  thing  to  feel  a  sea-god's  arms 

Crushing  her  breasts  in  amorous  tyranny, 
And  longed  to  listen  to  those  subtle  charms 

Insidious  lovers  weave  when  they  would  win 

Some  fenced  fortress,  and  stole  back  again,  nor  thought 
it  sin 

To  yield  her  treasure  unto  one  so  fair, 

And  lay  beskle  him,  thirsty  with  love's  drouth. 

Called  him  soft  names,  played  with  his  tangled  hair. 
And  with  hot  hps  made  havoc  of  his  mouth 

Afraid  he  might  not  wake,  and  then  afraid 

Lest  he  might  wake  too  soon,  fled  back,  and  then,  fond 
renegade, 

Returned  to  fresh  assault,  and  all  day  long 

Sat  at  his  side,  and  laughed  at  her  new  toy,     * 

And  held  his  hand,  and  sang  her  sweetest  song, 
Then  frowned  to  see  how  froward  was  the  boy 

Who  would  not  with  her  maidenhood  entwine. 

Nor  knew  that  three  days  since  his  eyes  had  looked  on 
Proserpine, 


CHARMIDES.  12$ 

Nor  knew  what  sacrilege  his  lips  had  done, 
But  said,  "  He  will  awake,  I  know  him  well. 

He  will  awake  at  evening  when  the  sun 
Hangs  his  red  shield  on  Corinth's  citadel. 

This  sleep  is  but  a  cruel  treachery 

To  make  me  love  him  more,  and  in  some  cavern  of  the 
sea 

Deeper  than  ever  falls  the  fisher's  line 

Already  a  huge  Triton  blows  his  horn, 
And  weaves  a  garland  from  the  crystalline 

And  drifting  ocean-tendrils  to  adorn 
The  emerald  pillars  of  our  bridal  bed. 
For  sphered  in  foaming  silver,  and  with   coral-crowned 
head, 

We  two  will  sit  upon  a  throne  of  pearl. 

And  a  blue  wave  will  be  our  canopy, 
And  at*  our  feet  the  water-snakes  will  curl 

In  all  their  amethystine  panoply 
Of  diamonded  mail,  and  we  will  mark 
The    mullets    swimming    by    the   mast    of  some    storm- 
foundered  bark. 


126  CHARMIDES.  * 

Vermilion-finned  with  eyes  of  bossy  gold 

Like  flakes  of  crimson  light,  and  the  great  deep 

His  glassy-portaled  chamber  will  unfold, 
And  we  will  see  the  painted  dolphins  sleep 

Cradled  by  murmuring  halcyons  on  the  rocks 

Where  Proteus  in  quaint  suit  of  green  pastures  his  mon- 
strous flocks. 

And  tremulous  opal-hued  anemones 

Will  wave  their  purple  fringes  where  we  tread 

Upon  the  mirrored  floor,  and  argosies 

Of  fishes  flecked  with  tawny  scales  will  thread 

The  drifting  cordage  of  the  shattered  wreck, 

And  honey-coloured  amber  beads  our  twining  limbs  will 
deck." 

But  when  that  baffled  Lord  of  War  the  Sun 

With  gaudy  pennon  flying  passed  away 
Into  his  brazen  House,  and  one  by  one 

The  little  yellow  stars  began  to  stray 
Across  the  field  of  heaven,  ah  !  then  indeed 
She  feared   his  hps  upon  her  lips  would  never  care  to 
feed,- 


CHARMIDES.  12/ 

And  cried,  "  Awake,  already  the  pale  moon 
Washes  the  trees  with  silver,  and  the  wave 

Creeps  grey  and  chilly  up  this  sandy  dune, 
The  croaking  frogs  are  out,  and  from  the  cave 

The  night-jar  shrieks,  the  fluttering  bats  repass, 

And  the  brown  stoat  with  hollow  flanks  creeps  through 
the  dusky  grass. 

Nay,  though  thou  art  a  God,  be  not  so  coy, 

For  in  yon  stream  there  is  a  little  reed 
That  often  whispers  how  a  lovely  boy 

Lay  with  her  once  upon  a  grassy  mead, 
Who  when  his  cruel  pleasure  he  had  done 
Spread  wings  of  rustling  gold  and  soared  aloft  into  the 
sun. 

Be  not  so  coy,  the  laurel  trembles  still 

With  great  Apollo's  kisses,  and  the  fir 
Whose  clustering  sisters  fringe  the  sea-ward  hill 

Hath  many  a  tale  of  that  bold  ravish er 
Whom  men  call  Boreas,  and  I  have  seen 
The  mocking  eyes  of  Hermes  tlirough  the  poplar's  silvery 
sheen. 


128  CHARMIDES. 

Even  the  jealous  Naiads  call  me  fair, 

And  every  morn  a  young  and  ruddy  swain 

Wooes  me  with  apples  and  with  locks  of  hair, 
And  seeks  to  soothe  my  virginal  disdain 

By  all  the  gifts  the  gentle  wood-nymphs  love  ;* 

But  yesterday  he  brought  to  me  an  iris-plumaged  dove 


With  little  crimson  feet,  which  with  its  store 

Of  seven  spotted  eggs  the  cruel  lad 
Had  stolen  from  the  lofty  sycamore 

At  day-break,  when  her  amorous  comrade  had 
Flown  off  in  search  of  berried  juniper 
Which  most   they  love ;    the   fretful  wasp,   that   earliest 
vintager 


Of  the  blue  grapes,  hath  not  persistency 
So  constant  as  this  simple  shepherd-boy 

For  my  poor  lips,  his  joyous  purity 

And  laughing  sunny  eyes  might  well  decoy 

A  Dryad  from  her  oath  to  Artemis  ; 

For  very  beautiful  is  he,  his  mouth  was  made  to  kiss. 


CHARMTDES.  1 29 

His  argent  forehead,  like  a  rising  moon 

Over  the  dusky  hills  of  meeting  brows, 
Is  crescent  shaped,  the  hot  and  Tyrian  noon 

-  Leads  from  the  myrtle-grove  no  goodlier  spouse 
For  Cythersea,  the  first  silky  down 

Fringes    his   blushing   cheeks,   and  his  young  limbs  are 
strong  and  brown  : 

And  he  is  rich,  and  fat  and  fleecy  herds 

Of  bleating  sheep  upon  his  meadows  lie, 
And  many  an  earthen  bowl  of  yellow  curds 

Is  in  his  homestead  for  the  thievish  fly 
To  swim  and  drown  in,  the  pink  clover  mead 
Keeps  its  sweet  store  for  him,  and  he  can  pipe  on  oaten 
reed. 

And  yet  I  love  him  not,  it  was  for  thee 

I  kept  my  love,  I  knew  that  thou  would'st  come 
To  rid  me  of  this  pallid  chastity ; 

Thou  fairest  flower  of  the  flowerless  foam 
Of  all  the  wide  JEgean,  brightest  star 
Of   ocean's   azure    heavens  where   the    mirrored   planets 
are  ! 

9 


130  CHARMIDES. 

I  knew  that  thou  would'st  come,  for  when  at  first 
The  dry  wood  burgeoned,  and  the  sap  of  Spring 

Swelled  in  my  green  and  tender  bark  or  burst 
To  myriad  multitudinous  blossoming 

Which  mocked  the  midnight  with  its  mimic  moons 

That  did  not  dread  the  dawn,  and  first  the  thrushes'  rap- 
turous tunes 

Startled  the  squirrel  from  its  granary, 

And  cuckoo  flowers  fringed  the  narrow  lane, 

Through  my  young  leaves  a  sensuous  ecstasy 
Crept  like  new  wine,  and  every  mossy  vein 

Throbbed  with  the  fitful  pulse  of  amorous  blood, 

And  the  wild  winds  of  passion   shook  my  slim  stem's 
maidenhood. 

The  trooping  fawns  at  evening  came  and  laid 
Their  cool  black  noses  on  my  lowest  boughs 

And  on  my  topmost  branch  the  blackbird  made 
A  little  nest  of  grasses  for  his  spouse. 

And  now  and  then  a  twittering  wren  would  light 

On  a  thin  twig  which  hardly  bare  the  weight  of  such 
delight. 


CHARMIDES.  I31 

I  was  the  Attic  shepherd's  trysting  place, 

Beneath  my  shadow  Amaryllis  lay, 
And  round  my  trunk  would  laughing  Daphnis  chase 

The  timorous  girl,  till  tired  out  with  play 
She  felt  his  hot  breath  stir  her  tangled  hair, 
And  turned,  and  looked,  and  fled  no  more  from  such 
delightful  snare. 

Then  come  away  unto  my  ambuscade 

Where  clustering  woodbine  weaves  a  canopy 

For  amorous  pleasaunce,  and  the  rustling  shade 
Of  Paphian  myrtles  seems  to  sanctify 

The  dearest  rites  of  love,  there  in  the  cool 

And  green  recesses  of  its  farthest  depth  there  is  a  pool, 

The  ouzel's  haunt,  the  wild  bee's  pasturage, 
For  round  its  rim  great  creamy  lilies  float 

Through  their  flat  leaves  in  verdant  anchorage. 
Each  cup  a  white-sailed  golden-laden  boat 

Steered  by  a  dragon-fly,  —  be  not  afraid 

To  leave  this  wan  and  wave-kissed  shore,  surely  the  place 
were  made 


132  CHARMIDES. 

For  lovers  such  as  we,  the  Cyprian  Queen, 

One  arm  around  her  boyish  paramour. 
Strays  often  there  at  eve,  and  I  have  seen 

The  moon  strip  off  her  misty  vestiture 
For  young  Endymion's  eyes,  be  not  afraid. 
The  panther  feet  of  Dian  never  tread  that  secret  glade. 


Nay  if  tliou  wil'st,  back  to  the  beating  brine, 

Back  to  the  boisterous  billow  let  us  go, 
And  walk  all  day  beneath  the  hyaline 

Huge  vault  of  Neptune's  watery  portico. 
And  watch  the  purple  monsters  of  the  deep 
Sport  in  ungainly  play,  and  from  his  lair  keen  Xiphias 
leap. 


For  if  my  mistress  find  me  lying  here 

She  will  not  ruth  or  gentle  pity  show, 
But  lay  her  boar-spear  down,  and  with  austere 

Relentless  fingers  string  the  cornel  bow. 
And  draw  the  feathered  notch  against  her  breast, 
And  loose  the  arched  cord,  ay,  even  now  upon  the  quest 


CHARMIDES.  1 33 

I  hear  her  hurrying  feet,  —  awake,  awake. 
Thou  laggard  in  love's  battle  !  once  at  least 

Let  me  drink  deep  of  passion's  wine,  and  slake 
My  parched  being  with  the  nectarous  feast 

Which  even  Gods  affect !  O  come  Love  come, 

Still  we  have  time  to  reach  the  cavern  of  thine  azure 
home." 

Scarce  had  she  spoken  when  the  shuddering  trees 
Shook,  and  the  leaves  divided,  and  the  air 

Grew  conscious  of  a  God,  and  the  grey  seas 
Crawled  backward,  and  a  long  and  dismal  blare 

Blew  from  some  tasselled  horn,  a  sleuth-hound  bayed. 

And  like  a  flame  a  barbed  reed  flew  whizzing  down  the 
glade. 

And  where  the  little  flowers  of  her  breast 

Just  brake  into  their  milky  blossoming. 
This  murderous  paramour,  this  unbidden  guest. 

Pierced  and  struck  deep  in  horrid  chambering. 
And  ploughed  a  bloody  furrow  with  its  dart. 
And  dug  a  tong  red  road,  and  cleft  with  winged  death 
her  heart. 


134  CHARMIDES. 

Sobbing  her  life  out  vvitli  a  bitter  cry- 
On  the  boy's  body  fell  the  Dryad  maid, 

Sobbing  for  incomplete  virginity, 

And  raptures  unenjoyed,  and  pleasures  dead, 

And  all  the  pain  of  things  unsatisfied, 

And  the  bright  drops  of  crimson  youth  crept  down  her 
throbbing  side. 

Ah  !  pitiful  it  was  to  hear  her  moan. 

And  very  pitiful  to  see  her  die 
Ere  she  had  yielded  up  her  sweets,  or  known 

The  joy  of  passion,  that  dread  mystery 
Which  not  to  know  is  not  to  live  at  all, 
And  yet  to  know  is  to  be  held  in  death's  most  deadly 
thrall. 

But  as  it  hapt  the  Queen  of  Cythere, 
Who  with  Adonis  all  night  long  had  lain 

Within  some  shepherd's  hut  in  Arcady, 
On  team  of  silver  doves  and  gilded  wane 

Was  journeying  Paphos-ward,  high  up  afar 

From  mortal  ken  between  the  mountains  and  the  morn- 
ing star. 


CHARMIDES.  1 35 

And  when  low  down  she  spied  the  hapless  pair, 
And  heard  the  Oread's  faint  despairing  cry, 

Whose  cadence  seemed  to  play  upon  the  air 
As  though  it  were  a  viol,  hastily 

She  bade  her  pigeons  fold  each  straining  plume, 

And  dropt  to  earth,  and  reached  the  strand,  and  saw 
their  dolorous  doom. 

For  as  a  gardener  turning  back  his  head 
To  catch  the  last  notes  of  the  linnet,  mows 

With  careless  scythe  too  near  some  flower  bed, 
And  cuts  the  thorny  pillar  of  the  rose. 

And  with  the  flower's  loosened  loveliness 

Strews  the  brown  mould,  or  as  some  shepherd  lad  in 
wantonness 

Driving  his  little  flock  along  the  mead 

Treads  down  two  daffodils  which  side  by  side 

Have  lured  the  lady-bird  with  yellow  brede 
And  made  the  gaudy  moth  forget  its  pride, 

Treads  down  their  brimming  golden  chalices 

Under  light  feet  which  were  not  made  for  such  rude 
^  ravages. 


136  CHARMIDES. 

Or  as  a  schoolboy  tired  of  his  book 

Flings  himself  down  upon  the  reedy  grass 

And  plucks  two  water-lilies  from  the  brook, 
And  for  a  time  forgets  the  hour  glass, 

Then  wearies  of  their  sweets,  and  goes  his  way, 

And  lets  the  hot  sun  kill  them,  even  so  these  lovers 
lay. 

And  Venus  cried,  "  It  is  dread  Artemis 

Whose  bitter  hand  hath  wrought  this  cruelty, 

Or  else  that  mightier  may  whose  care  it  is 
To  guard  her  strong  and  stainless  majesty 

Upon  the  hill  Athenian,  —  alas  ! 

That  they  who  loved  so  well  unloved  into  Death's  house 
should  pass. 

So  with  soft  hands  she  laid  the  boy  and  girl 

In  the  great  golden  waggon  tenderly, 
Her  white  throat  whiter  than  a  moony  pearl 

Just  threaded  with  a  blue  vein's  tapestry 
Had  not  yet  ceased  to  throb,  and  still  her  breast 
Swayed  like  a  wind-stirred  lily  in  ambiguous  unrest. 


CHARMIDES.  1 3/ 

And  then  each  pigeon  spread  its  milky  van, 
The  bright  car  soared  into  the  dawning  sky, 

And  like  a  cloud  the  aerial  caravan 
Passed  over  the  ^gean  silently, 

Till  the  faint  air  was  troubled  with  the  song 

From  the  wan  mouths  that  call  on  bleeding  Thammuz  all 
night  long. 

But  when  the  doves  had  reached  their  wonted  goal 
Where  the  wide  stair  of  orbed  marble  dips 

Its  snows  into  the  sea,  her  fluttering  soul 
Just  shook  the  trembling  petals  of  her  lips 

And  passed  into  the  void,  and  Venus  knew 

That  one  fair  maid  the  less  would  walk  amid  her  retinue, 

And  bade  her  servants  carve  a  cedar  chest 

With  all  the  wonder  of  this  history, 
Within  whose  scented  womb  their  limbs  should  rest 

Where  olive-trees  make  tender  the  blue  sky 
On  the  low  hills  of  Paphos,  and  the  faun 
Pipes  in  the  noonday,  and  the  nightingale  sings  on  till 
dawn. 


138  CHARMIDES. 

Nor  failed  they  to  obey  her  hest,  and  ere 

The  morning  bee  had  stung  the  daffodil 
With  tiny  fretful  spear,  or  from  its  lair 

The  waking  stag  had  leapt  across  the  rill 
And  roused  the  ouzel,  or  the  lizard  crept 
Athwart  the  sunny  rock,  beneath  the  grass  their  bodies 
slept. 

And  when  day  brake,  within  that  silver  shrine 

Fed  by  the  flames  of  cressets  tremulous, 
Queen  Venus  knelt  and  prayed  to  Proserpine 

That  she  whose  beauty  made  Death  amorous 
Should  beg  a  guerdon  from  her  pallid  Lord, 
And  let  Desire  pass  across  dread  Charon's  icy  ford. 


CHARMIDES.  139 


III. 

In  melancholy  moonless  Acheron, 

Far  from  the  goodly  earth  and  joyous  day, 

Where  no  spring  ever  buds,  nor  ripening  sun 
Weighs  down  the  apple  trees,  nor  flowery  May 

Chequers  with  chestnut  blooms  the  grassy  floor, 

Where  thrushes  never  sing,  and  piping  linnets  msite  no 
more. 

There  by  a  dim  and  dark  Lethasan  well 

Young  Charmides  was  lying,  wearily 
He  plucked  the  blossoms  from  the  asphodel, 

And  with  its  little  rifled  treasury 
Strewed  the  dull  waters  of  the  dusky  stream. 
And  watched  the  white  stars  founder,  and  the  land  was 
Hke  a  dream. 


140  '  CHARxMIDES. 

When  as  he  gazed  into  the  watery  glass 

And  through  his  brown  hair's  curly  tangles  scanned 

His  own  wan  face,  a  shadow  seemed  to  pass 
Across  the  mirror,  and  a  httle  hand 

Stole  into  his,  and  warm  lips  timidly 

Brushed  his  pale  cheeks,  and  breathed  their  secret  forth 
into  a  sigh. 

Then  turned  he  round  his  weary  eyes  and  saw,  • 

And  ever  nigher  still  their  faces  came, 
And  nigher  ever  did  their  young  mouths  draw 

Until  they  seemed  one  perfect  rose  of  flame, 
And  longing  arms  around  her  neck  he  cast, 
And  felt  her  throbbing  bosom,  and  his  breath  came  hot 
and  fast. 

And  all  his  hoarded  sweets  were  hers  to  kiss, 

And  all  her  maidenhood  was  his  to  slay. 
And  limb  to  hmb  in  long  and  rapturous  bliss 

Their  passion  waxed  and  waned,  —  O  why  essay 
To  pipe  again  of  love  too  venturous  reed  ! 
Enough,  enough  that  Eros  laughed  upon  that  flowerless 
mead. 


CHARMIDES.  I4I 

Too  venturous  poesy  O  why  essay 

To  pipe  again  of  passion  !  fold  thy  wings 

O'er  daring  Icarus  and  bid  thy  lay 

Sleep  hidden  in  the  lyre's  silent  strings, 

Till  thou  hast  found  the  old  Castalian  rill, 

Or  from  the  Lesbian  waters  plucked  drowned  Sappho's 
golden  quill ! 

Enough,  enough  that  he  whose  life  had  been 

A  fiery  pulse  of  sin,  a  splendid  shame. 
Could  in  the  loveless  land  of  Hades  glean 

One  scorching  harvest  from  those  fields  of  flame 
Where  passion  walks  with  naked  unshod  feet 
And  is  not  wounded,  —  ah  !  enough  that  once  their  lips 
could  meet 

In  that  wild  throb  when  all  existences 

Seem  narrowed  to  one  single  ecstasy 
Which  dies  through  its  own  sweetness  and  the  stress 

Of  too  much  pleasure,  ere  Persephone 
Had  bade  them  serve  her  by  the  ebon  throne 
Of  the  pale  God  who  in  the  fields  of  Enna  loosed  her  zone. 


143 


IMPRESSIONS. 

I. 

LES  SILHOUETTES. 

The  sea  is  flecked  with  bars  of  grey 
The  dull  dead  wind  is  out  of  tune, 
And  like  a  withered  leaf  the  moon 
Is  blown  across  the  stormy  bay. 

Etched  clear  upon  the  pallid  sand 
The  black  boat  lies  :  a  sailor  boy 
Clambers  aboard  in  careless  joy 
With  laughing  face  and  gleaming  hand. 

And  overhead  the  curlews  cry, 
Where  through  the  dusky  upland  grass 
The  young  brown-throated  reapers  pass, 
Like  silhouettes  against  the  sky. 


144  IMPRESSIONS. 


II. 

LA   FUITE  DE  LA  LUNE. 

To  outer  senses  there  is  peace, 
A  dreamy  peace  on  either  hand, 
Deep  silence  in  the  shadowy  land. 
Deep  silence  where  the  shadows  cease. 

Save  for  a  cry  that  echoes  shrill 
From  some  lone  bird  disconsolate ; 
A  corncrake  calling  to  its  mate ; 
The  answer  from  the  misty  hill. 

And  suddenly  the  moon  withdraws 
Her  sickle  from  the  hghtening  skies, 
And  to  her  sombre  cavern  flies. 
Wrapped  in  a  veil  of  yellow  gauze. 


145 


THE   GRAVE   OF   KEATS. 

Rid  of  the  world's  injustice,  and  his  pain, 
He  rests  at  last  beneath  God's  veil  of  blue  : 
Taken  from  life  when  life  and  love  were  new 

The  youngest  of  the  martyrs  here  is  lain, 

Fair  as  Sebastian,  and  as  early  slain. 

No  cypress  shades  his  grave,  no  funeral  yew, 
But  gentle  violets  weeping  with  the  dew 

Weave  on  his  bones  an  ever-blossoming  chain. 

O  proudest  heart  that  broke  for  misery  ! 
O  sweetest  lips  since  those  of  Mitylene  ! 
O  poet-painter  of  our  English  Land  ! 

Thy  name  was  writ  in  water it  shall  stand  : 

And  tears  like  mine  will  keep  thy  memoiy  green, 
As  Isabella  did  her  Basil-tree. 


Rome, 


J  46 


THEOCRITUS. 
A  VILLANELLE. 

O  Singer  of  Persephone  ! 

In  the  dim  meadows  desolate 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily? 

Still  through  the  ivy  flits  the  bee 
Where  Amaryllis  lies  in  state ; 
O  Singer  of  Persephone  ! 

Simaetha  calls  on  Hecate 

And  hears  the  wild  dogs  at  the  gate ; 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily? 

Still  by  the  light  and  laughing  sea 

Poor  Polypheme  bemoans  his  fate  : 
O  Singer  of  Persephone  ! 


THEOCRITUS.  147 

And  still  in  boyish  rivalry 

Young  Daphnis  challenges  his  mate  : 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily  ? 

Slim  Lacon  keeps  a  goat  for  thee, 

For  thee  the  jocund  shepherds  wait, 
O  Singer  of  Persephone  ! 
Dost  thou  remember  Sicily  ? 


148 


IN  THE  GOLD  ROOM. 

A    HARMONY. 

Her  ivory  hands  on  the  ivory  keys 

Strayed  in  a  fitful  fantasy, 
Like  the  silver  gleam  when  the  poplar  trees 

Rustle  their  pale  leaves  listlessly, 
Or  the  drifting  foam  of  a  restless  sea 
When  the  waves  show  their  teeth  in  the  flying  breeze. 

Her  gold  hair  fell  on  the  wall  of  gold 
Like  the  delicate  gossamer  tangles  spun 

On  the  burnished  disk  of  the  marigold, 
Or  the  sun-flower  turning  to  meet  the  sun 
When  the  gloom  of  the  jealous  night  is  done, 

And  the  spear  of  the  lily  is  aureoled. 


IN  THE   GOLD    ROOM.  149 

And  her  sweet  red  lips  on  these  lips  of  mine 
Burned  like  the  ruby  fire  set 

In  the  swinging  lamp  of  a  crimson  shrine, 
Or  the  bleeding  wounds  of  the  pomegranate, 
Or  the  heart  of  the  lotus  drenched  and  wet 

With  the  spilt-out  blood  of  the  rose-red  wine. 


150 


BALLADE   DE    MARGUERITE. 

(NORMANDE.) 

I  AM  weary  of  lying  within  the  chase 

When  the  knights  are  meeting  in  market-place. 

Nay,  go  not  thou  to  the  red- roofed  town 

Lest  the  hooves  of  the  war-horse  tread  thee  down. 

But  I  would  not  go  where  the  Squires  ride, 
I  would  only  walk  by  my  Lady's  side. 

Alack  !  and  alack  !  thou  art  over  bold, 
A  Forester's  son  may  not  eat  off  gold. 

Will  she  love  me  the  less  that  my  Father  is  seen, 
Each  Martinmas  day  in  a  doublet  green? 

Perchance  she  is  sewing  at  tapestrie, . 
Spindle  and  loom  are  not  meet  for  thee. 


BALLADE   DE   MARGUERITE.  151 

Ah,  if  she  is  working  the  arras  bright 

I  might  ravel  the  threads  by  the  fire-light. 

Perchance  she  is  hunting  of  the  deer, 
How  could  you  follow  o'er  hill  and  meer? 

Ah,  if  she  is  riding  with  the  court, 

I  might  run  beside  her  and  wind  the  morte. 

Perchance  she  is  kneeling  in  S.  Denys, 

(On  her  soul  may  our  Lady  have  gramercy  !) 

Ah,  if  she  is  praying  in  lone  chapelle, 

I  might  swing  the  censer  and  ring  the  bell. 

Come  in  my  son,  for  you  look  sae  pale. 
The  father  shall  fill  thee  a  stoup  of  ale. 

But  who  are  these  knights  in  bright  array? 
Is  it  a  pageant  the  rich  folks  play? 

'Tis  the  King  of  England  from  over  sea. 
Who  has  come  unto  visit  our  fair  countrie. 

But  why  does  the  curfew  toll  sae  low 
And  why  do  the  mourners  walk  a-row? 


152  BALLADE   DE  MARGUERITE. 

O  'tis  Hugh  of  Amiens  my  sister's  son 
Who  is  lying  stark,  for  his  day  is  done. 

Nay,  nay,  for  I  see  white  lihes  clear. 

It  is  no  strong  man  who  lies  on  the  bier. 

0  'tis  old  Dame  Jeannette  that  kept  the  hall, 

1  knew  she  would  die  at  the  autumn  fall. 

Dame  Jeannette  had  not  that  gold-brown  hair, 
Old  Jeannette  was  not  a  maiden  fair. 

O  'tis  none  of  our  kith  and  none  of  our  kin, 
(Her  soul  may  our  Lady  assoil  from  sin  !) 

But  I  hear  the  boy's  voice  chaunting  sweet, 
"Elle  est  morte,  la  Marguerite." 

Come  in  my  son  and  lie  on  the  bed. 
And  let  the  dead  folk  bury  their  dead. 

O  mother,  you  know  I  loved  her  true : 
O  mother,  hath  one  grave  room  for  two  ? 


153 


THE  DOLE  OF  THE  KING'S  DAUGHTER. 

(BRETON.) 

Seven  stars  in  the  still  water, 

And  seven  in  the  sky ; 
Seven  sins  on  the  King's  daughter, 

Deep  in  her  soul  to  lie. 

Red  roses  are  at  her  feet, 

(Roses  are  red  in  her  red-gold  hair) 
And  O  where  her  bosom  and  girdle  meet 

Red  roses  are  hidden  there. 

Fair  is  the  knight  who  lieth  slain 

Amid  the  rush  and  reed, 
See  the  lean  fishes  that  are  fain 

Upon  dead  men  to  feed. 


154     THE  DOLE   OF  THE   KING'S   DAUGHTER. 

Sweet  is  the  page  that  lieth  there, 

(Cloth  of  gold  is  goodly  prey,) 
See  the  black  ravens  in  the  air, 

Black,  O  black  as  the  night  are  they. 

What  do  they  there  so  stark  and  dead? 

(There  is  blood  upon  her  hand) 
Why  are  the  lilies  flecked  with  red? 

(There  is  blood  on  the  river  sand.) 

There  are  two  that  ride  from  the  south  and  east, 
And  two  from  the  north  and  west, 

For  the  black  raven  a  goodly  feast, 
For  the  King's  daughter  rest. 

There  is  one  man  who  loves  her  true, 
(Red,  O  red,  is  the  stain  of  gore  !) 

He  hath  duggen  a  grave  by  the  darksome  yew, 
(One  grave  will  do  for  four.) 

No  moon  in  the  still  heaven. 

In  the  black  water  none. 
The  sins  on  her  soul  are  seven, 

The  sin  upon  his  is  one. 


155 


AMOR    INTELLECTUALIS. 

Oft  have  we  trod  the  vales  of  Castaly 

And  heard  sweet  notes  of  sylvan  music  blown 
From  antique  reeds  to  common  folk  unknown  : 

And  often  launched  our  bark  upon  that  sea 

Which  the  nine  Muses  hold  in  empery, 

And  ploughed  free  furrows  through  the  wave  and  foam, 
Nor  spread  reluctant  sail  for  more  safe  home 

Till  we  had  freighted  well  our  argosy. 

Of  which  despoiled  treasures  these  remain, 
Sordello's  passion,  and  the  honied  line 

Of  young  Endymion,  lordly  Tamburlaine 

Driving  his  pampered  jades,  and  more  than  these, 

The  seven-fold  vision  of  the  Florentine, 

And  grave-browed  Milton's  solemn  harmonies. 


156 


SANTA    DECCA.      . 

The  Gods  are  dead  :  no  longer  do  we  bring 
To  grey-eyed  Pallas  crowns  of  olive-leaves  ! 
Demeter's  child  no  more  hath  tithe  of  sheaves, 

And  in  the  noon  the  careless  shepherds  sing, 

For  Pan  is  dead,  and  all  the  wantoning 
By  secret  glade  and  devious  haunt  is  o'er  : 
Young  Hylas  seeks  the  water-springs  no  more ; 

Great  Pan  is  dead,  and  Mary's  Son  is  King. 

And  yet — perchance  in  this  sea- tranced  isle, 
Chewing  the  bitter  fruit  of  memory, 
Some  God  hes  hidden  in  the  asphodel. 

Ah  Love  !  if  such  there  be  then  it  were  well 
For  us  to  fly  his  anger  :  nay,  but  see 
The  leaves  are  stirring  :  let  us  watch  a-while. 


157 


A   VISION. 

Two  crowned  Kings,  and  One  that  stood  alone 
With  no  green  weight  of  laurels  round  his  head, 
But  with  sad  eyes  as  one  uncomforted, 

And  wearied  with  man's  never-ceasing  moan 

For  sins  no  bleating  victim  can  atone, 

And  sweet  long  lips  with  tears  and  kisses  fed. 
Girt  was  he  in  a  garment  black  and  red, 

And  at  his  feet  I  marked  a  broken  stone 
Which  sent  up  lilies,  dove-like,  to  his  knees. 
Now  at  their  sight,  my  heart  being  lit  with  flame 

I  cried  to  Beatrice',  "Who  are  these?" 

And  she  made  answer,  knowing  well  each  name, 
"^schylos  first,  the  second  Sophokles, 
And  last  (wide  stream  of  tears  !)  Euripides." 


158 


IMPRESSION   DU   VOYAGE. 

The  sea  was  sapphire  coloured,  and  the  sky 
Burned  like  a  heated  opal  through  the  air, 
We  hoisted  sail ;  the  wind  was  blowing  fair 

For  the  blue  lands  that  to  the  eastward  lie. 

From  the  steep  prow  I  marked  with  quickening  eye 
Zakynthos,  every  ohve  grove  and  creek, 
Ithaca's  cliff,  Lycaon's  snowy  peak. 

And  all  the  flower-strewn  hills  of  Arcady. 

The  flapping  of  the  sail  against  the  mast. 
The  ripple  of  the  water  on  the  side. 
The  ripple  of  girls'  laughter  at  the  stem. 

The  only  sounds  :  —  when  'gan  the  West  to  burn, 
And  a  red  sun  upon  the  seas  to  ride, 
I  stood  upon  the  soil  of  Greece  at  last ! 


159 


THE   GRAVE    OF   SHELLEY. 

Like  burnt-out  torches  by  a  sick  man's  bed 

Gaunt  cypress-trees  stand  round  the  sun-bleached  stone  ; 

Here  doth  the  litde  night-owl  make  her  throne, 
And  the  slight  lizard  show  his  jewelled  head. 
And,  where  the  chaliced  poppies  flame  to  red, 

In  the  still  chamber  of  yon  pyramid 

Surely  some  Old-World  Sphinx  lurks  darkly  hid, 
Grim  warder  of  this  pleasaunce  of  the  dead. 

Ah  !  sweet  indeed  to  rest  within  the  womb 

Of  Earth,  great  mother  of  eternal  sleep, 
But  sweeter  far  for  thee  a  restless  tomb 

In  the  blue  cavern  of  an  echoing  deep, 
Or  where  the  tall  ships  founder  in  the  gloom 

Against  the  rocks  of  some  wave-shattered  steep. 

Rome. 


i6o 


BY  THE  ARNO. 

The  oleander  on  the  wall 
Grows  crimson  in  the  daAvning  light, 
Though  the  grey  shadows  of  the  night 
Lie  yet  on  Florence  like  a  pall. 

The  dew  is  bright  upon  the  hill, 
And  bright  the  blossoms  Overhead, 
But  ah  !  the  grasshoppers  have  fled, 
The  httle  Attic  song  is  still. 

Only  the  leaves  are  gently  stirred 
By  the  soft  breathing  of  the  gale, 
And  in  the  almond- scented  vale 
The  lonely  nightingale  is  heard. 

The  day  will  make  thee  silent  soon, 
O  nightingale  sing  on  for  love  ! 
While  yet  upon  the  shadowy  grove 
Splinter  the  arrows  of  the  moon. 


BY  THE   ARNO.  l6l 

Before  across  the  silent  lawn 
In  sea-green  mist  the  morning  steals, 
And  to  love's  frightened  eyes  reveals 
The  long  white  fingers  of  the  dawn 

Fast  climbing  up  the  eastern  sky 
To  grasp  and  slay  the  shuddering  night, 
All  careless  of  my  heart's  delight. 
Or  if  the  nightingale  should  die. 


II 


IMPRESSIONS    DU    THEATRE. 


FABIEN  DEI  FRANCHI. 

The  silent  room,  the  heavy  creeping  shade, 
The  dead  that  travel  fast,  the  opening  door, 
The  murdered  brother  rising  through  the  floor, 

The  ghost's  white  fingers  on  thy  shoulders  laid. 

And  then  the  lonely  duel  in  the  glade. 

The  broken  swords,  the  stifled  scream,  the  gore. 
Thy  grand  revengeful  eyes  when  all  is  o'er,  — 

These  things  are  well  enough,  —  but  thou  wert  made 
For  more  august  creation  !  frenzied  Lear 
Should  at  thy  bidding  wander  on  the  heath 
With  the  shrill  fool  to  mock  him,  Romeo 

For  thee  should  lure  his  love,  and  desperate  fear 
Pluck  Richard's  recreant  dagger  from  its  sheath  — 
Thou  trumpet  set  for  Shakespeare's  lips  to  blow ! 


l66  IMPRESSIONS    DU   THEATRE. 


PHEDRE. 

How  vain  and  dull  this  common  world  must  seem 
To  such  a  One  as  thou,  who  should'st  have  talked 
At  Florence  with  Mirandola,  or  walked 

Through  the  cool  olives  of  the  Academe  : 

Thou  should'st  have  gathered  reeds  from  a  green  stream 
For  Goat-foot  Pan's  shrill  piping,  and  have  played 
With  the  white  girls  in  that  Phseacian  glade 

Where  grave  Odysseus  wakened  from  his  dream. 

Ah  !  surely  once  some  urn  of  Attic  clay 

Held  thy  wan  dust,  and  thou  hast  come  again 
Back  to  this  common  world  so  dull  and  vain, 

For  thou  wert  weary  of  the  sunless  day, 
The  heavy  fields  of  scentless  asphodel. 
The  loveless  lips  with  which  men  kiss  in  Hell. 

^^^  ^^jitiA, ,  yAs^^  3  0  '^  ^- 


IMPRESSIONS   DU   THEATRE.  167 


PORTIA. 

I  MARVEL  not  Bassanio  was  so  bold 
To  peril  all  he  had  upon  the  lead, 
Or  that  proud  Aragon  bent  low  his  head, 

Or  that  Morocco's  fiery  heart  grew  cold  : 

For  in  that  gorgeous  dress  of  beaten  gold 
Which  is  more  golden  than  the  golden  sun. 
No  woman  Veronese  looked  upon 

Was  half  so  fair  as  thou  whom  I  behold. 

Yet  fairer  when  with  wisdom  as  your  shield 
The  sober-suited  lawyer's  gown  you  donned 

And  would  not  let  the  laws  of  Venice  yield 
Antonio's  heart  to  that  accursed  Jew  — 
O  Portia  !  take  my  heart :  it  is  thy  due  : 

I  think  I  will  not  quarrel  with  the  Bond. 


1 68  IMPRESSIONS    DU   THEATRE. 


QUEEN    HENRIETTA   MARIA. 

In  the  lone  tent,  waiting  for  victory, 

She  stands  with  eyes  marred  by  the  mists  of  pain, 

Like  some  wan  lily  overdrenched  with  rain : 
The  clamorous  clang  of  arms,  the  ensanguined  sky, 
War's  ruin,  and  the  wreck  of  chivalry, 

To  her  proud  soul  no  common  fear  can  bring : 

Bravely  she  tarrieth  for  her  Lord  the  King, 
Her  soul  a-flame  with  passionate  ecstasy. 
O  Hair  of  Gold  !    O  Crimson  Lips  !    O  Face 

Made  for  the  luring  and  the  love  of  man  ! 

With  thee  I  do  forget  the  toil  and  stress. 
The  loveless  road  that  knows  no  resting  place, 

Time's  straitened  pulse,  the  soul's  dread  weariness. 

My  freedom  and  my  life  republican  ! 


IMPRESSIONS    DU   THEATRE.  1 69 


CAMMA. 

As  one  who  poring  on  a  Grecian  urn 

Scans  the  fair  shapes  some  Attic  hand  hath  made, 
God  with  slim  goddess,  goodly  man  with  maid, 

And  for  their  beauty's  sake  is  loth  to  turn 

And  face  the  obvious  day,  must  I  not  yearn 
For  many  a  secret  moon  of  indolent  bliss. 
When  in  the  midmost  shrine  of  Artemis 

I  see  thee  standing,  antique-limbed,  and  stern? 

And  yet  —  methinks  I'd  rather  see  thee  play 
That  serpent  of  old  Nile,  whose  witchery 

Made  Emperors  drunken,  —  come,  great  Eg}'pt,  shake 
Our  stage  with  all  thy  mimic  pageants  !    Nay, 
I  am  grown  sick  of  unreal  passions,  make 

The  world  thine  Actium,  me  thine  Antony  ! 


PANTHEA. 


Nay,  let  us  walk  from  fire  unto  fire, 

From  passionate  pain  to  deadlier  delight,  — 

I  am  too  young  to  live  without  desire. 

Too  young  art  thou  to  waste  this  summer  night 

Asking  those  idle  questions  which  of  old 

Man  sought  of  seer  and  oracle,  and  no  reply  was  told. 

For,  sweet,  to  feel  is  better  than  to  know. 

And  wisdom  is  a  childless  heritage, 
One  pulse  of  passion  —  youth's  first  fiery  glow,  — 

Are  worth  the  hoarded  proverbs  of  the  sage  : 
Vex  not  thy  soul  with  dead  philosojDhy, 
Have  we  not  lips  to  kiss  with,  hearts  to  love,  and  eyes  to 
see  ! 


174  PANTHEA. 

Dost  thou  not  hear  the  murmuring  nightingale 

Like  water  bubbling  from  a  silver  jar, 
So  soft  she  sings  the  envious  moon  is  pale, 

That  high  in  heaven  she  is  hung  so  far 
She  cannot  hear  that  love-enraptured  tune,  — 
Mark  how  she  wreathes  each  horn  with  mist,  yon  late  and 
labouring  moon. 

White  lilies,  in  whose  cups  the  gold  bees  dream, 
The  fallen  snow  of  petals  where  the  breeze . 

Scatters  the  chestnut  blossom,  or  the  gleam 
Of  boyish  limbs  in  water,  —  are  not  these 

Enough  for  thee,  dost  thou  desire  more  ? 

Alas  !    the  Gods  will  give  nought  else  from  their  eternal 
store. 

For  our  high  Gods  have  sick  and  wearied  grown 
Of  all  our  endless  sins,  our  vain  endeavour 

For  wasted  days  of  youth  to  make  atone 

By  pain  or  prayer  or  priest,  and  never,  never, 

Hearken  they  now  to  either  good  or  ill, 

But   send  their  rain   upon   the   just  and   the    unjust  at 
will. 


PANTHEA.  175 

They  sit  at  ease,  our  Gods  they  sit  at  ease, 

Strewing  with  leaves  of  rose  their  scented  wine, 

They  sleep,  they  sleep,  beneath  the  rocking  trees 
Where  asphodel  and  yellow  lotus  twine. 

Mourning  the  old  glad  days  before  they  knew 

What  evil   things   the    heart   of  man  could  dream,  and 
dreaming  do. 

And  far  beneath  the  brazen  floor  they  see 
Like  swarming  flies  the  crowd  of  little  men. 

The  bustle  of  small  lives,  then  wearily 

Back  to  their  lotus-haunts  they  turn  again 

Kissing  each  other's  mouths,  and  mix  more  deep 

The  poppy-seeded  draught  which  brings  soft  purple-Udded 
sleep. 

There  all  day  long  the  golden-vestured  sun, 

Their  torch-bearer,  stands  with  his  torch  a-blaze. 

And  when  the  gaudy  web  of  noon  is  spun 

By  its  twelve  maidens  through  the  crimson  haze 

Fresh  from  Endymion's  arms  comes  forth  the  moon, 

And  the  immortal  Gods  in  toils  of  mortal  passions  swoon. 


I  j6  PANTHEA. 

There  walks  Queen  Juno  through  some  dewy  mead 
Her  grand  white  feet  flecked  with  the  saffron  dust 

Of  wind-stirred  lilies,  while  young  Ganymede 
Leaps  in  the  hot  and  amber-foaming  must, 

His  curls  all  tossed,  as  when  the  eagle  bare 

The  frightened  boy  from  Ida  through  the   blue  Ionian 
air. 

There  in  the  green  heart  of  some  garden  close 
Queen  Venus  with  the  shepherd  -at  her  side. 

Her  warm  soft  body  like  the  briar  rose 

Which  would  be  white  yet  blushes  at  its  pride, 

Laughs  low  for  love,  till  jealous  Salmacis 

Peers  through  the  myrtle-leaves  and   sighs  for    pain   of 
lonely  bliss. 

There  never  does  that  dreary  north- wind  blow 
Which  leaves  our  English  forests  bleak  and  bare, 

Nor  ever  falls  the  swift  white-feathered  snow, 
Nor  doth  the  red-toothed  lightning  ever  dare 

To  wake  them  in  the  silver-fretted  night 

When  we  lie  weeping  for  some  sweet  sad  sin,  some  dead 
delight. 


PANTHEA.  I J  J 

Alas  !  they  know  the  far  Lethaean  spring, 
The  violet-hidden  waters  well  they  know, 

Where  one  whose  feet  with  tired  wandering 
Are  faint  and  broken  may  take  heart  and  go, 

And  from  those  dark  depths  cool  and  crystalline 

Drink,  and  draw  balm,  and  sleep  for  sleepless  souls,  and 
anodyne. 

But  we  oppress  our  natures,  God  or  Fate 

Is  our  enemy,  we  starve  and  feed 
On  vain  repentance  —  O  we  are  born  too  late  ! 

What  balm  for  us  in  bruised  poppy  seed 
Who  crowd  into  one  finite  pulse  of  time 
The  joy  of  infinite  love  and  the  fierce  pain  of  infinite 
crime. 

O  we  are  wearied  of  this  sense  of  guilt, 

Wearied  of  pleasure's  paramour  despair. 
Wearied  of  every  temple  we  have  built. 

Wearied  of  every  right,  unanswered  prayer. 
For  man  is  weak ;  God  sleeps  :  and  heaven  is  high  : 
One   fiery-coloured    moment :   one  great  love ;    and   lo  ! 
we  die. 

12 


1/8  PANTHEA. 

Ah  !  but  no  ferry-man  with  labouring  pole 

Nears  his  black  shallop  to  the  flowerless  strand, 

No  little  coin  of  bronze  can  bring  the  soul 
Over  Death's  river  to  the  sunless  land, 

Victim  and  wine  and  vow  are  all  in  vain. 

The   tomb  is  sealed ;  the  soldiers  watch ;  the  dead  rise 
not  again. 

We  are  resolved  into  the  supreme  air, 

We  are  made  one  with  what  we  touch  and  see. 

With  our  heart's  blood  each  crimson  sun  is  fair, 
With  our  young  lives  each  spring-impassioned  tree 

Flames  into  green,  the  wildest  beasts  that  range 

The   moor  our   kinsmen  are,  all  life  is  one,  and  all   is 
•    change. 

With  beat  of  systole  and  of  diastole 

One  grand  great  life  throbs  through  earth's  giant  heart, 
^nd  mighty  waves  of  single  Being  roll 

From  nerve-less  germ  to  man,  for  we  are  part 
Of  every  rock  and  bird  and  beast  and  hill. 
One  with  the  things  that  prey  on  us,  and  one  with  what 
we  kill. 


PANTHEA.  179 

From  lower  cells  of  waking  life  we  pass 

To  full  perfection  ;  thus  the  world  grows  old  : 

We  who  are  godlike  now  were  once  a  mass 
Of  quivering  purple  flecked  with  bars  of  gold, 

Unsentient  or  of  joy  or  misery, 

And  tossed  in  terrible  tangles  of  some  wild  and  wind- 
swept sea. 

This  hot  hard  flame  with  which  our  bodies  burn 
Will  make  some  meadow  blaze  with  daffodil. 

Ay  !  and  those  argent  breasts  of  thine  will  turn 
To  water-hlies  ;  the  brown  fields  men  till 

Will  be  more  fruitful  for  our  love  to-night, 

Nothing   is   lost   in    nature,    all   things    live    in    Death's 
despite. 

The  boy's  first  kiss,  the  hyacinth's  first  bell, 
The  man's  last  passion,  and  the  last  red  spear 

That  from  the  lily  leaps,  the  asphodel 

Which  will  not  let  its  blossoms  blow  for  fear 

Of  too  much  beauty,  and  the  timid  shame 

Of  the  young  bride-groom  at  his  lover's  eyes,  —  these 
with  the  same 


1 80  PANTHEA. 

One  sacrament  are  consecrate,  the  earth 

Not  we  alone  hath  passions  hymeneal, 
The  yellow  buttercups  that  shake  for  mirth 

At  daybreak  know  a  pleasure  not  less  real 
Than  we  do,  when  in  some  fresh-blossoming  wood 
We  draw  the  spring  into  our  hearts,  and  feel  that  life  is 
good. 

So  when  men  bury  us  beneath  the  yew 
Thy  crimson-stained  mouth  a  rose  will  be. 

And  thy  soft  eyes  lush  bluebells  dimmed  with  dew, 
And  when  the  white  narcissus  wantonly 

Kisses  the  wind  its  playmate,  some  faint  joy 

Will  thrill  our  dust,  and  we  will  be  again  fond  maid  and 
boy. 

And  thus  without  life's  conscious  torturing  pain 
In  some  sweet  flower  we  will  feel  the  sun. 

And  from  the  linnet's  throat  will  sing  again. 
And  as  two  gorgeous-mailed  snakes  will  run 

Over  our  graves,  or  as  two  tigers  creep 

Through  the  hot  jungle  where  the  yellow-eyed  huge  lions 
sleep 


PANTHEA.  l8l 

And  give  them  battle  !     How  niy  heart  leaps  up 

To  think  of  that  grand  living  after  death 
In  beast  and  bird  and  flower,  when  this  cup, 

Being  filled  too  full  of  spirit,  bursts  for  breath, 
And  with  the  pale  leaves  of  some  autumn  day 
The  soul  earth's  earliest  conqueror  becomes  earth's  last 
great  prey. 

O  think  of  it  !     We  shall  inform  ourselves 

Into  all  sensuous  life,  the  goat-foot  Faun, 
The  Centaur,  or  the  merry  bright-eyed  Elves 

That  leave  their  dancing  rings  to  spite  the  dawn 
Upon  the  meadows,  shall  not  be  more  near 
Than  you  and  I  to  nature's  mysteries,  for  we  shall  hear 

The  thrush's  heart  beat,  and  the  daisies  grow. 
And  the  wan  snowdrop  sighing  for  the  sun 

On  sunless  days  in  winter,  we  shall  know 
By  whom  the  silver  gossamer  is  spun, 

"Who  paints  the  diapered  fritillaries. 

On  what  wide  wings  from  shivering  pine  to  pine  the  eagle 
flies. 


1 82  PANTHEA. 

Ay  !  had  we  never  loved  at  all,  who  knows 

If  yonder  daffodil  had  lured  the  bee 
Into  its  gilded  womb,  or  any  rose 

Had  hung  with  crimson  lamps  its  little  tree  ! 
Methinks  no  leaf  would  ever  bud  in  spring, 
But  for  the  lovers'  lips  that  kiss,  the  poets'  lips  that  sing. 

Is  the  light  vanished  from  our  golden  sun, 

Or  is  this  daedal-fashioned  earth  less  fair, 
That  we  are  nature's  heritors,  and  one 

With  every  pulse  of  life  that  beats  the  air? 
Rather  new  suns  across  the  sky  shall  pass, 
New  splendour  come  unto  the  flower,  new  glory  to  the 
grass. 

And  we  two  lovers  shall  not  sit  afar. 

Critics  of  nature,  but  the  joyous  sea 
Shall  be  our  raiment,  and  the  bearded  star 

Shoot  arrows  at  our  pleasure  !     We  shall  be 
Part  of  the  mighty  universal  whole. 

And  through  all  aeons  mix  and  mingle  with  the  Kosmic 
Soul ! 


PANTHEA.  183 

We  shall  be  notes  in  that  great  Symphony 

Whose  cadence  circles  through  the  rhythmic  spheres, 

And  all  the  live  World's  throbbing  heart  shall  be 
One  with  our  heart,  the  stealthy  creeping  years 

Have  lost  their  terrors  now,  we  shall  not  die, 

The  Universe  itself  shall  be  our  Immortality  ! 


i85 


IMPRESSION. 

LE   REVEILLON. 

The  sky  is  laced  with  fitful  red, 
The  circling  mists  and  shadows  flee, 
The  dawn  is  rising  fi-om  the  sea, 
Like  a  white  lady  from  her  bed. 

And  jagged  brazen  arrows  fall 
Athwart  the  feathers  of  the  night, 
And  a  long  wave  of  yellow  light 
Breaks  silently  on  tower  and  hall, 

And  spreading  wide  across  the  wold 
Wakes  into  flight  some  fluttering  bird, 
And  all  the  chestnut  tops  are  stirred. 
And  all  the  branches  streaked  with  gold. 


1 86 


AT  VERONA. 

How  steep  the  stairs  within  Kings'  houses  are 
For  exile-wearied  feet  as  mine  to  tread, 
And  O  how  salt  and  bitter  is  the  bread 

Which  falls  from  this  Hound's  table,  —  better  far 

That  I  had  died  in  the  red  ways  of  war, 
Or  that  the  gate  of  Florence  bare  my  head, 
Than  to  live  thus,  by  all  things  comraded 

Which  seek  the  essence  of  my  soul  to  mar. 

"  Curse  God  and  die  :   what  better  hope  than  this  ? 
He  hath  forgotten  thee  in  all  the  bliss 
Of  his  gold  city,  and  eternal  day  "  — 

Nay  peace  :  behind  my  prison's  blinded  bars 
I  do  possess  what  none  can  take  away, 
My  love,  and  all  the  glory  of  the  stars. 


1 87 


APOLOGIA. 

Is  it  thy  will  that  I  should  wax  and  wane, 
Barter  my  cloth  of  gold  for  hodden  grey, 

And  at  thy  pleasure  weave  that  web  of  pain 

Whose  brightest  threads  are  each  a  wasted  day  ? 

Is  it  thy  will  —  Love  that  I  love  so  well  — • 

That  my  Soul's  House  should  be  a  tortured  spot 

Wherein,  like  evil  paramours,  must  dwell 

The  quenchless  flame,  the  worm  that  dieth  not? 

Nay,  if  it  be  thy  will  I  shall  endure, 
And  sell  ambition  at  the  common  mart, 

And  let  dull  failure  be  mv  vestiture, 

And  sorrov/  dig  its  grave  within  my  heart. 


1 88  -  APOLOGIA. 

Perchance  it  may  be  better  so  —  at  least 
I  have  not  made  my  heart  a  heart  of  stone, 

* 

Nor  starved  my  boyhood  of  its  goodly  feast, 
Nor  walked  where  Beauty  is  a  thing  unknown. 

Many  a  man  hath  done  so  ;  sought  to  fence 

In  straitened  bonds  the  soul  that  should  be  free, 

Trodden  the  dusty  road  of  common  sense, 
While  all  the  forest  sang  of  liberty, 

Not  marking  how  the  spotted  hawk  in  flight 

Passed  on  wide  pinion  through  the  lofty  air, 
/To  where  the  steep  untrodden  mountain  height 
^     Caught  the  last  tresses  of  the  Sun  God's  hair. 

Or  how  the  little  flower  he  trod  upon, 

The  daisy,  that  white-feathered  shield  of  gold, 

Followed  with  wistful  eyes  the  wandering  sun 
Content  if  once  its  leaves  were  aureoled. 

But  surely  it  is  something  to  have  been 

The  best  beloved  for  a  little  while. 
To  have  walked  hand  in  hand  with  Love,  and  seen 

His  purple  wings  flit  once  across  thy  smile. 


APOLOGIA.  189 

Ay  !  though  the  gorged  asp  of  passion  feed 
On  my  boy's  heart,  yet  have  I  burst  the  bars, 

Stood  face  to  face  with  Beauty,  known  indeed 
The  Love  which  moves  the  Sun  and  all  the  stars  ! 


*. 


1 90 


QUIA   MULTUM   AMAVI. 

Dear  Heart  I  think  the  young  impassioned  priest 
When  first  he  takes  firom  out  the  hidden  shrine 

His  God  imprisoned  in  the  Eucharist, 

And  eats  the  bread,  and  drinks  the  dreadful  wine, 

Feels  not  such  twful  wonder  as  I  felt 

When  first  my  smitten  eyes  beat  full  on  thee, 

And  all  night  long  before  thy  feet  I  knelt 
Till  thou  wert  wearied  of  Idolatry. 

Ah  !  had'st  thou  liked  me  less  and  loved  me  more, 
Through  all  those  summer  days  of  joy  and  rain, 

I  had  not  now  been  sorrow's  heritor. 
Or  stood  a  lackey  in  the  House  of  Pain. 


QUIA   MULTUM   AMAVI.  I9I 

Yet,  though  remorse,  youth's  white-faced  seneschal 
Tread  on  my  heels  with  all  his  retinue, 

I  am  most  glad  I  loved  thee  —  think  of  all 
The  suns  that  go  to  make  one  speedwell  blue  ! 


192 


SILENTIUM   AMORIS. 

As  oftentimes  the  too  resplendent  sun 
Hurries  the  pallid  and  reluctant  moon 

Back  to  her  sombre  cave,  ere  she  hath  won 
A  single  ballad  from  the  nightingale, 
So  doth  thy  Beauty  make  my  lips  to  fail, 

And  all  my  sweetest  singing  out  of  tune. 

And  as  at  dawn  across  the  level  mead 

On  wings  impetuous  some  wind  will  come. 

And  with  its  too  harsh  kisses  break  the  reed 
Which  was  its  only  instrument  of  song, 
So  my  too  stormy  passions  work  me  wrong, 

And  for  excess  of  Love  my  Love  is  dumb. 

But  surely  unto  Thee  mine  eyes  did  show 
Why  I  am  silent,  and  my  lute  unstrung ; 

Else  it  were  better  we  should  part,  and  go, 
Thou  to  some  lips  of  sweeter  melody, 
And  I  to  nurse  the  barren  memory 
/        Of  unkissed  kisses,  and  songs  never  sung. 


193 


HER  VOICE. 

The  wild  bee  reels  from  bough  to  bough 

With  his  furry  coat  and  his  gauzy  wing. 
Now  in  a  lily-cup,  and  now 
Setting  a  jacinth  bell  a- swing, 
In  his  wandering ; 
Sit  closer  love  :  it  was  here  I  trow 
I  made  that  vow, 

Swore  that  two  lives  should  be  like  one 
As  long  as  the  sea-gull  loved  the  sea, 
As  long  as  the  sunflower  sought  the  sun,  — 
It  shall  be,  I  said,  for  eternity 
'Twixt  you  and  me  ! 
Dear  friend,  those  times  are  over  and  done. 
Love's  web  is  spun. 
13 


194  HER   VOICE. 

Look  upward  where  the  poplar  trees 
Sway  and  sway  in  the  summer  air, 
Here  in  the  valley  never  a  breeze 
Scatters  the  thistledown,  but  there 
Great  winds  blow  fair 
From  the  mighty  murmuring  mystical  seas, 
And  the  wave-lashed  leas. 

Look  upward  where  the  white  gull  screams. 

What  does  it  see  that  we  do  not  see  ? 
Is  that  a  star?  or  the  lamp  that  gleams 
On  some  outward  voyaging  argosy,  — 
Ah  !  can  it  be 
We  have  lived  our  lives  in  a  land  of  dreams  ! 
How  sad  it  seems. 

Sweet,  there  is-  nothing  left  to  say 
But  this,  that  love  is  never  lost. 
Keen  winter  stabs  the  breasts  of  May 
Whose  crimson  roses  burst  his  frost, 
Ships  tempest-tossed 
Will  find  a  harbour  in  some  bay, 
And  so  we  may. 


HER   VOICE.  195 


And  there  is  nothing  left  to  do 

But  to  kiss  once  again,  and  part, 
Nay,  there  is  nothing  we  should  rue, 
I  have  my  beauty,  —  you  your  Art, 
Nay,  do  not  start. 
One  world  was  not  enough  for  two 
Like  me  and  you. 


196 


MY  VOICE. 

Wn'HiN  this  restless,  hurried,  modern  world 
We  took  our  hearts'  full  pleasure  —  You  and  I, 

And  now  the  white  sails  of  our  ship  are  furled, 
And  spent  the  lading  of  our  argosy. 

Wherefore  my  cheeks  before  their  time  are  wan. 
For  very  weeping  is  my  gladness  fled, 

Sorrow  hath  paled  my  lip's  vermilion, 
And  Ruin  draws  the  curtains  of  my  bed. 

But  all  this  crowded  life  has  been  to  thee 
No  more  than  lyre,  or  lute,  or  subtle  spell 

Of  viols,  or  the  music  of  the  sea 
That  sleeps,  a  mimic  echo,  in  the  shell. 


197 


TEDIUM   VIT^. 

To  stab  my  youth  with  desperate  knives,  to  wear 

This  pahry  age's  gaudy  livery, 

To  let  each  base  hand  filch  my  treasury, 

To  mesh  my  soul  within  a  woman's  hair. 

And  be  mere  Fortune's  lackeyed  groom,  —  I  swear 

I  love  it  not !  these  things  are  less  to  me 

Than  the  thin  foam  that  frets  upon  the  sea. 

Less  than  the  thistle-down  of  summer  air 

WMch  hath  no  seed  :  better  to  stand  alocC 

Far  from  these  slanderous  fools  who  mock  my  life 

Knowing  me  not,  better  the  lowliest  roof 

Fit  for  the  meanest  hind  to  sojourn  in, 

Than  to  go  back  to  that  hoarse  cave  of  strife 

Where  my  white  soul  first  kissed  the  mouth  of  sin. 


HUMANITAD. 


It  is  full  Winter  now  :  the  trees  are  bare, 
Save  where  the  cattle  huddle  from  the  cold 

Beneath  the  pine,  for  it  doth  never  wear 
The  Autumn's  gaudy  livery  whose  gold 

Her  jealous  brother  pilfers,  but  is  true 

To  the  green  doublet;   bitter  is  the  wind,  as  though  it 
blew 

From  Saturn's  cave  ;  a  few  thin  wisps  of  hay 
Lie  on  the  sharp  black  hedges,  where  the  wain 

Dragged  the  sweet  pillage  of  a  summer's  day 
From  the  low  meadows  up  the  narrow  lane ; 

Upon  the  half-thawed  snow  the  bleating  sheep 

Press  close  against  the  hurdles,  and  the  shivering  house- 
dogs creep 


202  HUMANITAD. 

From  the  shut  stable  to  the  frozen  stream 

And  back  again  disconsolate,  and  miss 
The  bawling  shepherds  and  the  noisy  team ; 

And  overhead  in  circling  listlessness 
The  cawing  rooks  whirl  round  the  frosted  stack, 
Or  crowd  the  dripping  boughs ;   and  in  the  fen  the  ice- 
pools  crack 

Where  the  gaunt  bittern  stalks  among  the  reeds 
And  flaps  his  wings,  and  stretches  back  his  neck. 

And  hoots  to  see  the  moon ;  across  the  meads 
Limps  the  poor  frightened  hare,  a  little  speck ; 

And  a  stray  seamew  with  its  fretful  cry 

Flits  like  a  sudden  drift  of  snow  against  the  dull  grey  sky. 

Full  winter  :  and  the  lusty  goodman  brings 

His  load  of  faggots  from  the  chilly  byre. 
And  stamps  his  feet  upon  the  hearth,  and  flings 

The  sappy  billets  on  the  waning  fire. 
And  laughs  to  see  the  sudden  lightening  scare 
His  children  at  their  play ;  and  yet,  —  the  Spring  is  in  the 
air. 


HUMANITAD.  203 

Already  the  slim  crocus  stirs  the  snow, 

And  soon  yon  blanched  fields  will  bloom  again 

With  nodding  cowslips  for  some  lad  to  mow, 
For  with  the  first  warm  kisses  of  the  rain 

The  winter's  icy  sorrow  breaks  to  tears, 

And  the  brown  thrushes  mate,  and  with  bright  eyes  the 
rabbit  peers 


From  the  dark  warren  where  the  fir-cones  lie. 
And  treads  one  snowdrop  under  foot,  and  runs 

Over  the  mossy  knoll,  and  blackbirds  fly 
Across  our  path  at  evening,  and  the  suns 

Stay  longer  with  us ;  ah  !  how  good  to  see 

Grass-girdled  Spring  in  all  her  joy  of  laughing  greenery 


Dance  through  the  hedges  till  the  early  rose, 
(That  sweet  repentance  of  the  thorny  briar  !) 

Burst  from  its  sheathed  emerald  and  disclose 
The  little  quivering  disk  of  golden  fire 

Which  the  bees  know  so  well,  for  with  it  come 

Pale  boys-love,  sops-in-wine,  and  daffadillies  all  in  bloom. 


204  HUMANITAD. 

Then  up  and  down  the  field  the  sower  goes, 
While  close  behind  the  laughing  younker  scares 

With  shrilly  whoop  the  black  and  thievish  crows, 
And  then  the  chestnut-tree  its  glory  wears, 

And  on  the  grass  the  creamy  blossom  falls 

In  odorous  excess,  and  faint  half-whispered  madrigals 

Steal  from  the  bluebells'  nodding  carillons 
Each  breezy  morn,  and  then  white  jessamine, 

That  star  of  its  own  heaven,  snapdragons 
With  lolling  crimson  tongues,  and  eglantine 

In  dusty  velvets  clad  usurp  the  bed 

And  woodland  empery,  and  when  the  hngering  rose  hath 
shed 

Red  leaf  by  leaf  its  folded  panoply,  ^ 

And  pansies  closed  their  purple-Hdded  eyes. 

Chrysanthemums  from  gilded  argosy 

Unload  their  gaudy  scentless  merchandise, 

And  violets  getting  overbold  withdraw 

From  their  shy  nooks,  and  scarlet  berries  dot  the  leafless 
haw. 


HUMANITAD.  205 

O  happy  field  !  and  O  thrice  happy  tree  ! 

Soon  will  your  queen  in  daisy-flowered  smock 
And  crown  of  flower-de-luce  trip  down  the  lea, 

Soon  will  the  lazy  shepherds  drive  their  flock 
Back  to  the  pasture  by  the  pool,  and  soon 
Through  the  green  leaves  will  float  the  hum  of  murmuring 
bees  at  noon. 

Soon  will  the  glade  be  bright  with  bellamour. 

The  flower  which  wantons  love,  and  those  sweet  nuns 

Vale-lilies  in  their  snowy  vestiture 

Will  tell  their  beaded  pearls,  and  carnations 

With  mitred  dusky  leaves  will  scent  the  wind, 

And  straggling  traveller's  joy  each  hedge  with  yellow  stars 
will  bind. 

Dear  Bride  of  Nature  and  most  bounteous  Spring  ! 

That  can'st  give  increase  to  the  sweet-breath'd  kine, 
And  to  the  kid  its  litde  horns,  and  bring 

The  soft  and  silky  blossoms  to  the  vine, 
Where  is  that  old  nepenthe  which  of  yore 
Man  got  from  poppy  root  and  glossy-berried  mandragore  ! 


206  HUMANITAD. 

There  was  a  time  when  any  common  bird 

Could  make  me  sing  in  unison,  a  time 
When  all  the  strings  of  boyish  life  were  stin'ed 

To  quick  response  or  more  melodious  rhyme 
By  every  forest  idyll ;  —  do  I  change  ? 
Or  rather  doth  some  evil  thing  through  thy  fair  pleasaunce 
range? 

Nay,  nay,  thou  art  the  same  :  'tis  I  who  seek 

To  vex  with  sighs  thy  simple  solitude. 
And  because  fruitless  tears  bedew  my  cheek 

Would  have  thee  weep  with  me  in  brotherhood ; 
Fool !  shall  each  wronged  and  restless  spirit  dare 
I  To    taint    such   wine    with   the    salt   poison   of   his    own 
despair  ! 

Thou  art  the  same  :  'tis  I  whose  wretched  soul 

Takes  discontent  to  be  its  paramour, 
And  gives  its  kingdom  to  the  rude  control 

Of  what  should  be  its  servitor,  —  for  sure 
Wisdom  is  somewhere,  though  the  stormy  sea 
Contain  it  not,  and  the  huge  deep  answer  "  'Tis  not  in 


me." 


HUMANITAD.  20/ 

To  burn  with  one  clear  flame,  to  stand  erect 

In  natural  honour,  not  to  bend  the  knee 
In  profitless  prostrations  whose  effect 

Is  by  itself  condemned,  what  alchemy 
Can  teach  me  this  ?  what  herb  Medea  brewed 
Will  bring  the  unexultant  peace  of  essence  not  subdued  ? 


The  minor  chord  which  ends  the  harmony. 
And  for  its  answering  brother  waits  in  vain, 

Sobbing  for  incompleted  melody 

Dies  a  Swan's  death  ;  but  I  the  heir  of  pain 

A  silent  Memnon  with  blank  lidless  eyes 

Wait  for  the  light  and  music  of  those  suns  which  never 
rise. 


The  quenched-out  torch,  the  lonely  cyj^ress-gloom, 

The  little  dust  stored  in  the  narrow  urn, 
The  gentle  XAIPE  of  the  Attic  tomb,  — 

W^ere  not  these  better  far  than  to  return 
To  my  old  fitful  restless  malady, 
Or  spend  my  days  within  the  voiceless  cave  of  misery? 


208  HUMANITAD. 

Nay  !  for  perchance  that  poppy-crowned  God 
Is  hke  the  watcher  by  a  sick  man's  bed 

Who  talks  of  sleep  but  gives  it  not ;  his  rod 
Hath  lost  its  virtue,  and,  when  all  is  said, 

Death  is  too  rude,  too  obvious  a  key 

To  solve  one  single  secret  in  a  life's  philosophy. 


And  Love  !  that  noble  madness,  whose  august 

And  inextinguishable  might  can  slay 
The  soul  with  honied  drugs,  —  alas  !  I  must 

From  such  sweet  ruin  play  the  runaway, 
Although  too  constant  memory  never  can 
Forget  the  arched  splendour  of  those  brows  Olympian 


Which  for  a  little  season  made  my  youth 

So  soft  a  swoon  of  exquisite  indolence 
That  all  the  chiding  of  more  prudent  Truth 

Seemed  the  thin  voice  of  jealousy,  —  O  Hence 
Thou  huntress  deadlier  than  Artemis  ! 
Go  seek  some  other  quarry  !  for  of  thy  too  perilous  bliss 


HUMANITAD.  209 

My  lips  have  drunk  enough,  —  no  more,  no  more, — 
Though  Love  himself  should  turn  his  gilded  prow 

Back  to  the  troubled  waters  of  this  shore 

Where  I  am  wrecked  and  stranded,  even  now 

The  chariot  wheels  of  passion  sweep  too  near, 

Hence  !  Hence  !  I  pass  unto  a  Hfe  more  barren,  more 
austere. 

More  barren  —  ay,  those  arms  will  never  lean 

Down  through  the  trellised  vines  and  draw  my  soul 

In  sweet  reluctance  through  the  tangled  green ; 
Some  other  head  must  wear  that  aureole, 

For  1  am  Hers  who  loves  not  any  man 

Whose  white  and  stainless  bosom  bears  the  sign  Gorgo- 
nian. 

Let  Venus  go  and  chuck  her  dainty  page, 
And  kiss  his  mouth,  and  toss  his  curly  hair, 

With  net  and  spear  and  hunting  equipage 
Let  young  Adonis  to  his  tryst  repair. 

But  me  her  fond  and  subtle-fashioned  spell 

Delights  no  more,  though  I  could  win  her  dearest  citadel. 

14 


2IO  -  HUMANITAD. 

Ay,  though  I  were  that  laughing  shepherd  boy 
Who  from  Mount  Ida  saw  the  little  cloud 

Pass  over  Tenedos  and  lofty  Troy 

And  knew  the  coming  of  the  Queen,  and  bowed 

In  wonder  at  her  feet,  not  for  the  sake 

Of  a  new  Helen  would  I  bid  her  hand  the  apple  take. 

Then  rise  supreme  Athena  argent-limbed  ! 

And,  if  my  lips  be  musicless,  inspire 
At  least  my  life  :  was  not  thy  glory  hymned 

By  One  who  gave  to  thee  his  sword  and  lyre 
Like  ^schylus  at  well-fought  Marathon, 
And  died  to  show  that  Milton's  England  still  could  bear 
a  son  ! 


And  yet  I  cannot  tread  the  Portico 

And  live  without  desire,  fear,  and  pain, 
Or  nurture  that  wise  calm  which  long  ago 

The  grave  Athenian  master  taught  to  men. 
Self-poised,  self-centred,  and  self-comforted, 
To  watch  the  world's  vain  phantasies  go  by  with  unbowed 
head. 


HUMANITAD.  2 1 1 

Alas  !  that  serene  brow,  those  eloquent  lips, 

Those  eyes  that  mirrored  all  eternity, 
Rest  in  their  own  Colonos,  an  eclipse 

Hath  come  on  Wisdom,  and  Mnemosyne 
Is  childless ;  in  the  night  which  she  had  made 
For  lofty  secure  flight  Athena's  owl  itself  hath  strayed. 


Nor  much  with  Science  do  I  care  to  climb, 
Although  by  strange  and  subtle  witchery 

She  draw  the  moon  from  heaven  :  the  Muse  of  Time 
Unrolls  her  gorgeous-coloured  tapestry 

To  no  less  eager  eyes  ;  often  indeed 

In  the  great  epic  of  Polymnia's  scroll  I  love  to  read 


How  Asia  sent  her  myriad  hosts  to  war 

Against  a  little  town,  and  panoplied 
In  gilded  mail  with  jewelled  scimetar, 

White-shielded,  purple-crested,  rode  the  Mede 
Between  the  waving  poplars  and  the  sea 
Which  men  call  Artemisium,  till  he  saw  Thermopylae 


2 1 2  HUMANITAD. 

Its  Steep  ravine  spanned  by  a  narrow  wall, 

And  on  the  nearer  side  a  little  brood 
Of  careless  lions  holding  festival  ! 

And  stood  amazed  at  such  hardihood, 
And  pitched  his  tent  upon  the  reedy  shore, 
And  stayed  two  days  to  wonder,  and  then  crept  at  mid- 
night o'er 

Some  unfrequented  height,  and  coming  down 

The  autumn  forests  treacherously  slew 
What  Sparta  held  most  dear  and  was  the  crown 

Of  far  Eurotas,  and  passed  on,  nor  knew 
How  God  had  staked  an  evil  net  for  him 
In  the  small  bay  of  Salamis,  —  and  yet,  the  page  gi-ows 
dim. 

Its  cadenced  Greek  delights  me  not,  I  feel 
With  such  a  goodly  time  too  out  of  tune 

To  love  it  much  :  for  like  the  Dial's  wheel 

That  from  its  blinded  darkness  strikes  the  noon 

Yet  never  sees  the  sun,  so  do  my  eyes 

Restlessly  follow  that  which  from  my  cheated  vision 
flies. 


HUMANITAD.  2  I  3 

O  for  one  grand  unselfish  simple  life 

To  teach  us  what  is  Wisdom  !  speak  ye  hills 

Of  lone  Helvellyn,  for  this  note  of  strife 

Shunned  your  untroubled  crags  and  crystal  rills, 

Where  is  that  Spirit  which  living  blamelessly 

Yet  dared  to  kiss  the  smitten  mouth  of  his  own  century  ! 

Speak  ye  Rydalian  laurels  !  where  is  He 

Whose  gentle  head  ye  sheltered,  that  pure  soul 

Whose  gracious  days  of  uncrowned  majesty 

Through  lowliest  conduct  touched  the  lofty  goal 

Where  Love  and  Duty  mingle  !  Him  at  least 

The  most  high  Laws  were  glad  of,  he  had  sat  at  Wisdom's 
feast, 

But  we  are  Learning's  changelings,  know  by  rote 
The  clarion  watchword  of  each  Grecian  school 

And  follow  none,  the  flawless  sword  which  smote 
The  pagan  Hydra  is  an  effete  tool 

Which  we  ourselves  have  blunted,  what  man  now 

Shall  scale  the  august  ancient  heights  and  to  old  Rever- 
ence bow? 


214  HUMANITAD. 

One  such  indeed  I  saw,  but,  Ichabod  ! 

Gone  is  that  last  dear  son  of  Italy, 
Who  being  man  died  for  the  sake  of  God, 

And  whose  unrisen  bones  sleep  peacefully. 
O  guard  him,  guard  him  well,  my  Giotto's  tower, 
Thou  marble  lily  of  the  lily  town  !  let  not  the  lower 


Of  the  rude  tempest  vex  his  slumber,  or 

The  Arno  with  its  tawny  troubled  gold 
O'erleap  its  marge,  no  mightier  conqueror 

Clomb  the  high  Capitol  in  the  days  of  old 
When  Rome  was  indeed  Rome,  for  Liberty 
Walked  like  a  Bride  beside  him,  at  which  sight  pale 
Mystery 


Fled  shrieking  to  her  farthest  sombrest  cell 
With  an  old  man  who  grabbled  rusty  keys. 

Fled  shuddering  for  that  immemorial  knell 
With  which  oblivion  buries  dynasties 

Swept  like  a  wounded  eagle  on  the  blast, 

As  to  the  holy  heart  of  Rome  the  great  triumvir  passed. 


HUMANITAD.  2 1 5 

He  knew  the  holiest  heart  and  heights  of  Rome, 
He  drave  the  base  wolf  from  the  lion's  lair, 

And  now  lies  dead  by  that  empyreal  dome 
Which  overtops  Valdarno  hung  in  air 

By  Brunelleschi  —  O  Melpomene 

Breathe  tlirough  thy  melancholy  pipe  thy  sweetest  thren- 
ody ! 

Breathe  through  the  tragic  stops  such  melodies 
That  Joy's  self  may  grow  jealous,  and  the  Nine 

Forget  a-while  their  discreet  emperies, 

Mourning  for  him  who  on  Rome's  lordHest  shrine 

Lit  for  men's  lives  the  light  of  Marathon, 

And  bare  to  sun-forgotten  fields  the  fire  of  the  sun  ! 

O  guard  him,  guard  him  well,  my  Giotto's  tower, 
Let  some  young  Florentine  each  eventide 

Bring  coronals  of  that  enchanted  flower 

Which  the  dim  woods  of  Vallombrosa  hide, 

And  deck  the  marble  tomb  wherein  he  lies 

Whose   soul   is   as   some  mighty  orb   unseen  of  mortal 
eyes. 


2l6  HUMANITAD. 

Some  mighty  orb  whose  cycled  wanderings, 

Being  tempest-driven  to  the  farthest  rim 
Where  Chaos  meets  Creation  and  the  wings 

Of  the  eternal  chanting  Cherubim 
Are  pavilioned  on  Nothing,  passed  away 
Into  a  moonless  void,  —  And  yet,  though  he  is  dust  and 
clay, 

He  is  not  dead,  the  immjemorial  Fates 

Forbid  it,  and  the  closing  shears  refrain. 
Lift  up  your  heads  ye  everlasting  gates  ! 

Ye  argent  clarions  sound  a  loftier  strain  ! 
For  the  vile  thing  he  hated  lurks  within 
Its   sombre   house,   alone    with   God    and   memories   of 
sin. 

Still  what  avails  it  that  she  sought  her  cave 
That  murderous  mother  of  red  harlotries  ? 

At  Munich  on  the  marble  architrave 

The  Grecian  boys  die  smiling,  but  the  seas 

Which  wash  ^gina  fret  in  loneliness 

Not   mirroring   their   beauty,  so   our   lives  grow  colour- 
less 


HUMANITAD.  2 1  / 

For  lack  of  our  ideals,  if  one  star 

Flame  torch-like  in  the  heavens  the  unjust 

Swift  daylight  kills  it,  and  no  trump  of  war 
Can  wake  to  passionate  voice  the  silent  dust 

Which  was  Mazzini  once  !  rich  Niobe 

For  all  her  stony  sorrows  hath  her  sons,  but  Italy 


t 


What  Easter  Day  shall  make  her  children  rise, 
Who  were  not  Gods  yet  suffered  ?  what  sure  feet 

Shall  find  their  graveclothes  folded  ?  what  clear  eyes 
Shall  see  them  bodily  ?     O  it  were  meet 

To  roll  the  stone  from  off  the  sepulchre 

And  kiss  the  bleeding  roses  of  their  wounds,  in  love  of 
Her 


Our  Italy  !  our  mother  visible  ! 

Most  blessed  among  nations  and  most  sad. 
For  whose  dear  sake  the  young  Calabrian  fell 

That  day  at  Aspromonte  and  was  glad 
That  in  an  age  when  God  was  bought  and  sold 
One  man  could  die  for  Liberty  !  but  we,  burnt  out  and 
cold. 


2l8  HUMANITAD. 

See  Honour  smitten  on  the  cheek  and  gyves 

Bind  the  sweet  feet  of  Mercy  :  Poverty 
Creeps  through  our  sunless  lanes  and  with  sharp  knives 

Cuts  the  warm  throats  of  children  stealthily, 
And  no  word  said  :  —  O  we  are  v/retched  men 
Unworthy  of  our  great  inheritance  !  where  is  the  pen 

Of  austere  Milton  ?  where  the  mighty  sword 
Which  slew  its  master  righteously  ?  the  years 

Have  lost  their  ancient  leader,  and  no  word 
Breaks  from  the  voiceless  tripod  on  our  ears : 

While  as  a  ruined  mother  in  some  spasm 

Bears  a  base   child   and   loathes  it,  so   our  best   enthu- 
siasm 

Genders  unlawful  children,  Anarchy 

Freedom's  own  Judas,  the  vile  prodigal 
Licence  who  steals  the  gold  of  Liberty 

And  yet  has  nothing,  Ignorance  the  real 
One  Fratricide  since  Cain,  Envy  the  asp 
That    stings    itself    to    anguish.    Avarice    whose    palsied 
grasp 


HUMANITAD.  219 

Is  in  its  extent  stiffened,  monied  Greed 

For  whose  dull  appetite  men  waste  away 
Amid  the  whirr  of  wheels  and  are  the  seed 

Of  things  which  slay  their  sower,  these  each  day 
Sees  rife  in  England,  and  the  gende  feet 
Of  Beauty  tread  no  more   the   stones  of  each  unlovely 
street. 

What  even  Cromwell  spared  is  desecrated 
By  weed  and  worm,  left  to  the  stormy  play 

Of  wind  and  beating  snow,  or  renovated 

By  more  destructful  hands  :    Time's  worst  decay 

Will  wreathe  its  ruins  with  some  loveliness. 

But  these  new  Vandals  can  but  make  a  rainproof  barren- 
ness. 

Where  is  that  Art  which  bade  the  Angels  sing 

Through  Lincoln's  lofty  choir,  till  the  air 
Seems  from  such  marble  harmonies  to  ring 

With  sweeter  song  than  common  lips  can  dare 
To  draw  from  actual  reed  ?  ah  !  where  is  now 
The  cunning  hand  which  made  the  flowering  hawthorn 
branches  bow 


220  HUMANITAD. 

For  Southwell's  arch,  and  carved  the  House  of  One 

Who  loved  the  lilies  of  the  field  with  all 
Our  dearest  English  flowers  ?  the  same  sun 

Rises  for  us  :  the  seasons  natural 
Weave  the  same  tapestry  of  green  and  grey : 
The  unchanged  hills  are  with  us :   but   that   Spirit  hath 
passed  away. 

And  yet  perchance  it  may  be  better  so, 

For  Tyranny  is  an  incestuous  Queen, 
Murder  her  brother  is  her  bedfellow, 

And  the  Plague  chambers  with  her  :  in  obscene 
And  bloody  paths  her  treacherous  feet  are  set ; 
Better  the  empty  desert  and  a  soul  mviolate  ! 

For  gentle  brotherhood,  the  harmony 

Of  living  in  the  healthful  air,  the  swift 
Clean  beauty  of  strong  Hmbs  when  men  are  free 

And  women  chaste,  these  are  the  things  which  lift 
Our  souls  up  more  than  even  Agnolo's 
Gaunt    blinded    Sibyl    poring    o'er   the  scroll  of  human 
woes. 


HUMANITAD.  221 

Or  Titian's  little  maiden  on  the  stair 

White  as  her  own  sweet  lily  and  as  tall, 
Or  Mona  Lisa  smiling  through  her  hair,  — 

Ah  !  somehow  life  is  bigger  after  all 
Than  any  painted  angel  could  we  see 
The  God  that  is  within  us  !    The  old  Greek  serenity 

Which  curbs  the  passion  of  that  level  line 
Of  marble  youths,  who  with  untroubled  eyes 

And  chastened  limbs  ride  round  Athena's  shrine 
And  mirror  her  divine  economies, 

And  balanced  symmetry  of  what  in  man 

Would  else  wage  ceaseless  warfare,  —  this  at  least  within 
the  span 

Between  our  mother's  kisses  and  the  gi-ave 
Might  so  inform  our  lives,  that  we  could  win 

Such  mighty  empires  that  from  her  cave 

Temptation  would  grow  hoarse,  and  pallid  Sin 

Would  walk  ashamed  of  his  adulteries. 

And    Passion  creep  from    out   the  House   of  Lust   with 
starded  eyes. 


222  HUMANITAD. 

To  make  the  Body  and  the  Spirit  one 

With  all  right  things,  till  no  thing  live  in  vain 

From  morn  to  noon,  but  in  sweet  unison 
With  every  pulse  of  flesh  and  throb  of  brain 

The  Soul  in  flawless  essence  high  enthroned, 

Against  all  outer  vain  attack  invincibly  bastioned, 


Mark  with  serene  impartiality 

The  strife  of  things,  and  yet  be  comforted, 
Knowing  that  by  the  chain  causality 

All  separate  existences  are  wed 
Into  one  supreme  whole,  whose  utterance 
Is  joy,  or  holier  praise  !  ah  !  surely  this  were  governance 


Of  Life  in  most  august  omnipresence. 

Through  which  the  rational  intellect  would  find 

In  passion  its  expression,  and  mere  sense, 
Ignoble  else,  lend  fire  to  the  mind, 

And  being  joined  with  in  harmony 

More  mystical  than  that  which  binds  the  stars  planetary, 


HUMANITAD.  223 

Strike  from  their  several  tones  one  octave  chord 
Whose  cadence  being  measureless  would  fly 

Through  all  the  circling  spheres,  then  to  its  Lord 
Return  refreshed  with  its  new  empery 

And  more  exultant  power,  —  this  indeed 

Could  we  but  reach  it  were  to  find  the  last,  the  perfect 
creed. 

Ah  !  it  was  easy  when  the  world  was  young 

To  keep  one's  life  free  and  inviolate, 
From  our  sad  lips  another  song  is  rung, 

By  our  own  hands  our  heads  are  desecrate, 
Wanderers  in  drear  exile,  and  dispossessed 
Of  what  should  be  our  own,  we  can  but  feed  on  wild 
unrest. 

Somehow  the  grace,  the  bloom  of  things  has  flown. 
And  of  all  men  we  are  most  wretched  who 

Must  live  each  other's  lives  and  not  our  own 
For  very  pity's  sake  and  then  undo 

All  that  we  live  for  —  it  was  otherwise 

When  soul   and  body  seemed  to  blend  in  mystic  sym- 
phonies. 


224  HUMANITAD. 

But  we  have  left  those  gentle  haunts  to  pass 

With  weary  feet  to  the  new  Calvary, 
Where  we  behold,  as  one  who  in  a  glass 

Sees  his  own  face,  self-slain  Humanity, 
And  in  the  dumb  reproach  of  that  sad  gaze 
Learn  what  an  awful  phantom  the  red  hand  of  man  can 
raise. 

O  smitten  mouth  !    O  forehead  cro\vned  with  thorn  ! 

O  chalice  of  all  common  miseries  ! 
Thou  for  our  sakes  that  loved  thee  not  hast  borne 

An  agony  of  endless  centuries, 
And  we  were  vain  and  ignorant  nor  knew 
That  when  we  stabbed  thy  heart  it  was  our  own  real 
hearts  we  slew, 

ft 

Being  ourselves  the  sowers  and  the  seeds. 

The  night  that  covers  and  the  lights  that  fade. 

The  spear  that  pierces  and  the  side  that  bleeds, 
The  lips  betraying  and  the  hfe  betrayed ; 

The  deep  hath  calm  :  the  moon  hath  rest :  but  we 

Lords  of  the  natural  world  are  yet  our  own  dread 
enemy. 


HUMANITAD.  225 

Is  this  the  end  of  all  that  primal  force 

Which,  in  its  changes  being  still  the  same, 

From  eyeless  Chaos  cleft  its  upward  course, 

Through  ravenous  seas  and  whirling  rocks  and  flame, 

Till  the  suns  met  in  heaven  and  began 

Their  cycles,  and  the  morning  star?  sang,  and  the  Word 
was  Man  ! 

Nay,  nay,  we  are  but  crucified^  and  though 

The  bloody  sweat  falls  from  our  brows  like  rain, 

Loosen  the  nails  —  we  shall  come  down  I  know. 
Staunch  the  red  wounds  —  we  shall  be  whole  again, 

No  need  have  we  of  hyssop-laden  rod. 

That  which   is   purely  human,  that  is   Godlike,  that   is 
God. 


15 


22^ 


TAYKYniKPOS  •  EPOS  * 

Sweet  I  blame  you  not  for  mine  the  fault  was,  had  I  not 

been  made  of  common  clay 
I  had  climbed  the  higher  heights  unclimbed  yet,  seen  the 

fuller  air,  the  larger  day. 

From  the  wildness  of  my  wasted  passion  I  had  struck  a 

better,  clearer  song, 
Lit  some  lighter  light  of  freer  freedom,  battled  with  some 

Hydra-headed  wTong. 

Had  my  lips  been  smitten  into  music  by  the  kisses  that 

but  made  them  bleed, 
You  had  walked  with  Bice  and  the  angels  on  that  verdant 

and  enamelled  mead. 

I  had  trod  the  road  which  Dante  treading  saw  the  suns  of 

seven  circles  shine, 
Ay  !  perchance  had  seen  the  heavens  opening,  as  they 

opened  to  the  Florentine. 


228  rATKTniKPOS  •  EPfiS  • 

And  the  mighty  nations  would  have  crowned  me,  who  am 

crownless  now  and  without  name, 
And  some  orient  dawn  had  found  me  kneehng  on  the 

threshold  of  the  House  of  Fame. 

I  had  sat  within  that  marble  circle  where  the  oldest  bard 

is  as  the  young, 
And   the   pipe  is  ever  dropping  honey,  and  the   lyre's 

strings  are  ever  strung. 

Keats   had   lifted  up  his  hymenaeal  curls  from  out  the 

poppy-seeded  wine. 
With  ambrosial  mouth  had  kissed  my  forehead,  clasped 

the  hand  of  noble  love  in  mine. 

And  at  springtide,  when  the   apple-blossoms  brush  the 

burnished  bosom  of  the  dove, 
Two  young  lovers  lying  in  an  orchard  would  have  read 

the  story  of  our  love. 

Would  have  read  the  legend  of  my  passion,  known  the 

bitter  secret  of  my  heart. 
Kissed  as  we  have  kissed,  but  never  parted  as  we  two  are 

fated  now  to  part. 


rATKTniKPos  •  EPfis  •  229 

For  the  crimson  flower  of  our  life  is  eaten  by  the  canker- 
worm  of  truth, 

And  no  hand  can  gather  up  the  fallen  withered  petals  of 
the  rose  of  youth. 

Yet  I  am  not  sorry  that  I  loved  you  —  ah  !  what  else  had 

I  a  boy  to  do,  — 
For  the  hungry  teeth  of  time  devour,  and  the  silent-footed 

years  pursue. 

Rudderless,  we  drift  athwart  a  tempest,  and  when  once 

the  storm  of  youth  is  past. 
Without  lyre,  without  lute  or  chorus,  Death  a  silent  pilot 

comes  at  last. 

And  within  the  grave  there  is  no  pleasure,  for  the  blind- 
worm  battens  on  the  root, 

And  Desire  shudders  into  ashes,  and  the  tree  of  Passion 
bears  no  fruit. 

Ah !    what  else  had  I  to  do  but  love  you,  God's  o^\'n 

mother  was  less  dear  to  me, 
And  less  dear  the  Cythera:an  rising  like  an  argent  Hly 

from  the  sea. 


230  rATKTniKPOS  •  EPOS  • 

I  have  made  my  choice,  have  hved  my  poems,  and, 
though  youth  is  gone  in  wasted  days, 

I  have  found  the  lover's  crown  of  myrtle  better  than  the 
poet's  crown  of  bays. 


THE   END. 


w 


&^ 


Itf*. 


"» 


ll/f  irMUUtlKinmih 


